


Convergence

by kerfuffling



Series: Paradox [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:43:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerfuffling/pseuds/kerfuffling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because Draco's somehow gotten himself involved in Potter's suicide mission to defeat the Dark Lord doesn't mean he has to go quietly and actually act like a Gryffindor fool. And sure, he and Potter have some sort of relationship going on, but Draco's still a Slytherin, and he's going to bring his own brand of cunning to this cockamamy fool camping trip Potter's gone and got himself stuck in trying to save the world from evil lockets, gingers, and badly cooked food.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Convergence

If there was a fate worse than living as a Muggle, Draco didn't yet know it. It had been his acquiescence that had led him here in the first place--either this odd, magic-less street in the middle of Surrey or another summer spent with his insufferable aunt; staying the few weeks without Potter at the Weasleys hadn't even been an option, even as it was presented, but that didn’t mean he necessarily had to like his current situation.  
   
Potter's relatives were--in two words--woefully Muggle. The youngest, whom Draco had not bothered to remember the name of, reminded Draco fiercely of what he thought an Erumpent might look like, and as such, Draco called him Rumpy in his head, since he was more rump than anything else. He did not share this with Potter, even though he secretly thought Potter would get a kick out of it from the way he shot sidelong glances at the Muggles when they weren't looking. But his overwhelming sense of Gryffindor graciousness would bring him to the offensive, and it was not worth the fall out, not here, sequestered in this tiny house with insensibly magicless things, even if it would be highly amusing.

In any case, he was spending a lot of time doing absolutely nothing, shut in Potter’s room, paging through the books that he had in his trunk for lack of something more amusing to occupy himself with. Potter was hellbent on whatever task it was he’d taken upon himself to complete, and Draco was fine without knowing what the details, operating under the assumption that the less he knew, the better, especially as he was rapidly climbing Voldemort’s most wanted list.

When Potter wasn’t in a mood, moping about or pulling a Granger, it turned out he liked to talk. Not quite as gabby or gossipy as Pansy had been, but he filled the silence in a way that made it impossible to ignore. Stupid things at first, like comments on how Draco didn’t know how to work the ekelectricity or offhand remarks about what he’d done as a child in this house. It was weird, at first, maybe a little awkward, because whatever Potter and he had built up (and in no way, shape, or form was Draco classifying their relationship as, well, as a _relationship_ ), they’d never really had a conversation that went beyond a fight. The levity of what Potter was trying to develop between them was, in a word, mystifying, and Draco found himself answering with thinly veiled insults at first that only made Potter roll his eyes, wrinkle his nose, and go back to his books. 

But things had changed between them, obviously, and it wasn’t as _easy_ as it had once been to callously throw words about to hurt Potter, and the reciprocal was true. After all, even if Draco pretended as though he still couldn’t stand Potter as a person, the fact was he was in a Muggle house with only Potter for company, and actions, as his mum had always said, spoke louder than words.

The plan to break the enchantment keeping them both safe had been divulged to Draco with little detail, and as such, Draco was apprehensive of it. July had dawned muggy and cool, too foggy for Draco’s liking, and even though it was the height of summer, sometimes he shivered with the temperature, burrowed into Potter’s hard bed even though it was high afternoon. Sometimes Potter would climb in with him, and even though Draco hotly complained, it felt safer, in a way. 

One day, Potter was off doing whatever it was that he did whenever he was in a mood, and Draco was puttering around, flicking through the _Prophet_ for snippets of news when Rumpy decided to pay Draco an unprecedented visit.

“What do you want?” Draco asked flatly when he finally noticed Rumpy lingering in the open doorway, looking equal parts terrified and determined. His girth was huge, almost overwhelming, and for a second, Draco felt the need to go for his wand.

“Is Harry going to die?” Rumpy queried baldly, and Draco was taken aback for a second at his tone.

“I am not a prophet,” Draco responded tightly. “Divination is a useless subject anyways.”

Rumpy blinked slowly, uncomprehendingly, and Draco had to remind himself that Muggles didn’t know of such things. “I don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout,” the Muggle said brusquely, “but those other--” and here his voice dropped to a bare whisper “-- _people_ are actin’ like something’s gonna happen.”

“Well I suppose they’d be right then,” Draco snapped. “And what do you care anyway? It’s not like there’s any love lost between you. Everyone knows of Potter’s sad Muggle relatives and how they hate him.”

“I don’t hate Harry,” Rumpy protested, but it sounded very weak to Draco’s ears.

“I’m sure,” said Draco dryly. “In any case, I have no idea, so you ought not ask me. Won’t your father be angry you’re talking with me in the first place?” Draco did not like Potter’s uncle, who was ruddy-faced and snappish and most definitely thought Draco to be something beneath him, which was about the most ironic thing Draco could imagine.

“I won’t tell him,” Rumpy said sheepishly, looking at his feet.

“If you’re done then?” said Draco, somewhat meanly, after Rumpy had spent no less than two minutes looking at the carpet as though he expected it to ignite underneath his feet.

“Is Harry your boyfriend?” Rumpy asked suddenly, startling Draco again with his unprecedented questions.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Draco said, slightly scandalized. “I am not -- _that_!”

“Oh,” Rumpy said, looking downwards again. “I only thought...he looks at you funny sometimes.”

“You thought wrong,” Draco hissed, and even though he wished it not to be, he knew his face was bright pink at the implication.

“I’ll just be going then,” Rumpy muttered, and Draco thought that was the last of it until he said, a second later, “Look after Harry, will you? Just--look after him, okay?”

When Draco looked up again, Rumpy was gone, startlingly fast, and Draco couldn’t help but furrow his brow in confusion. Him? Look after Saint Potter? Somehow, Rumpy had gotten their roles reversed, because Potter was the one who was supposed to keep Draco from perishing, not the other way around.

And that’s how things were going to stay.

**

Draco doesn’t bring up his odd conversation with Rumpy to Potter, half because he could never find a way to phrase it appropriately and half because it was, suffice to say, slightly crass, at least in Draco’s mind. He couldn’t help but mull it over in his head, though, turning those last words over and over until he gave himself a headache. He didn’t _want_ to care what some Muggle had mentioned in passing, in some sort of disillusioned sense of propriety, but at the same time, it sparked a worry deep in Draco’s stomach. If even the Muggles thought Potter needed protecting--Potter, one of the most protected people Draco had ever known--then what was to become of Draco on this journey he was about to partake in?

Yes, he had spent a long time thinking about following Potter Circe-knows-where before he’d demanded it, but it had never hit home quite so hard before. The reality was becoming slightly overwhelming, and before he knew it, his odd holiday in Muggle England was coming to a swift end, and he was included in a throng of wizards that looked quite out of place in the sitting room, most of whom were giving Draco a withering stare. In turn, he ignored them, leaning against the far wall, sneering at the Weasley twins.

“The plan’s set,” Mad-Eye Moody growled, stomping to the middle of the room. He pulled something out of his side pocket, a flask not unlike the one he (or rather, fake-Moody) toted around during Draco’s fourth year, and beside him, Shacklebolt pulled his wand out decisively. “We’re splitting into teams of two,” Moody continued gravely. “One protector and one decoy.”

Draco didn’t like that word. Decoy. He very much hoped he wasn’t about to become one.

No one interrupted with a question, so Mad-Eye stumped forward a little, leaning on his walking stick, and followed up with, “Tonks, Kingsley, Remus, Arthur, Hagrid and myself will be paired up with one of the rest of you.”

Draco’s stomach dropped, and for the ninetieth time that evening, he questioned his cockamamy idea to join Potter on this damn crusade. He could be sitting comfortably in a hiding hole right now, and, if he thought he could get away with it unscathed, he had half a mind to Apparate directly to his Aunt Andromeda’s.

“Potter, you will be with Hagrid,” Moody said, gesturing, and Potter barely flickered a glance over to the oaf before squaring his attention on Moody again, obviously eager to get to the punchline of the plan. “We’re going to Disillusion you; you’ll be on the flying motorbike.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Potter said, relieved. “It’s like what we did the last time you came to get me when I was in fifth year.”

“The rest of you--Hermione, Ron, Fred, George, and Draco--will take Polyjuice Potion to disguise yourselves as Potter,” Shacklebolt said in his low, forbidding voice. “We hope that the Death Eaters haven’t yet discovered our plan to abandon this house early, but if they do, we need to draw attention away from the real Harry.”

“No,” Potter said immediately, looking as furious as Draco felt. “There’s no way. I’m not letting you!”

“I am _not_ pretending to be Potter just so someone can curse me off of a broom,” Draco snapped hotly.

Moody’s stare hardened, and for a second, Draco had to fight the urge to shrink back against the wall, sure he was about to be transfigured into a ferret again. “That’s the plan,” he said dangerously. “We’re not changing it.”

“There’s no way I’m going to fly away invisible while the rest of you pretend to be me!” Potter yelled. 

Draco rather thought Potter was being fairly stupid. He was the one who had the most assured promise of safety; Draco had been now entered into a contest where the prize was death with a chance that there’d be no losers. 

“There he goes,” one of the Weasley twins said. Draco could never tell them apart. “I told you.”

“Rather stupid of him, if you ask me,” the other said in counterpoint. “He should know we’re not going to let him leave without _some_ sort of plan.”

“This isn’t funny,” Potter snapped.

“I didn’t say it was,” the first twin said, in fake surprise. 

“Honestly,” Granger said, stepping forward. “Harry, we all agreed to this. It’s not the first time any of us have risked our lives for you.”

“I didn’t agree to anything,” Draco said bitterly.

“I’m not going to cooperate,” said Potter regally. “You need some of my hair for this plan to work.”

“Well now what do we do?” a twin asked sarcastically. “There’s obviously no chance of us overpowering you.”

“You’re really amusing, Fred,” Potter said, scowling.

“Enough of this,” Moody said. “If we have to force you to do it, we will. And we’re running out of time.”

“You don’t _need_ to do this,” Potter said, backing up a little. 

“No need?” Moody snarled. “No need when you’re You-Know-Who’s worst enemy and with the Ministry under his control? Potter, we can’t take the risk of him not taking the bait we fed the Auror team about you leaving. If he doesn’t, we’re going to end up with a hell of a battle on our side, and you’re not dying in it.”

“Stop being difficult, Harry,” Weasley said placatingly. Potter looked between them, all of them, before his shoulders slumped uselessly.

“Are we sure there’s no other way?” he asked.

“Yes,” Granger said briskly. She stepped forward quickly, and before anyone could react, plucked a couple of hairs from the top of his head. Potter squawked in protest, but she was giving them to Moody so he could put them in his flask before Potter could retaliate. Shacklebolt magicked several goblets out of midair, and Moody made short work of pouring a heavy swallow of Polyjuice Potion in each glass. It was gold, practically glittering, and Draco sneered; typical Potter to produce the best in everything without even properly trying.

“Ooh,” Granger said, impressed. “You look a lot tastier than Crabbe and Goyle.”

“Wait--what? Excuse me?” Draco spluttered.

“Shut up, Hermione,” Potter muttered, almost as if he was embarrassed by the attention.

“You turned into Crabbe and Goyle?” Draco exclaimed. “When was this?” Everyone ignored him, and Draco had to make a note to figure out what exactly had happened from Potter later.

Moody levitated the goblets, passing them around to their respective owners. Everyone immediately plucked theirs out of the air and took a drink; everyone, that is, except Draco, who let the glass hover there, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m not drinking that,” he declared.

“You are, boy,” Moody growled, “even if I have to _Imperio_ you to make it happen.”

“That’s illegal,” Draco spluttered, the first thing that came to mind.

“Does he really have to?” Potter asked, ever the consummate hero.

“I need to keep an eye on him,” Moody said lowly. “And since I have no intention of going to my safe house invisible, yes, he does.”

Potter sighed, thick and heavy, and turned to fully face Draco. “Just drink it, Draco,” he said wearily. “It’s not worth the fight, especially since he’ll force you in the end.”

“I hate you, Potter,” Draco said vehemently, and with one sharp movement, he snatched the glass out of midair and swallowed the potion in one gulp. 

Their argument had meant that Draco had missed the rest of the group turning into Potter clones, and now that it was happening to him, he found it most unpleasant. His skin was stretching in the most awful way, his bones creaking, and for one startling second, he was sure he was about to be sick on the carpet.

And then he was fine, standing straight up, shorter than he was used to, and with blurrier vision to boot. One of the Potters pressed a pair of glasses into his hand. “These’ll help,” it said, in Granger’s voice, and he put them on, sighing dramatically as he did so. His clothes felt a little tight, straining at the chest and arms, and that was an insult, but he didn’t say anything. Potter was looking at him strangely, and Draco didn’t like it. He took the proffered clothes, again thanks to Granger, and began putting them on without hesitation. The blush on Potter’s face was almost enough for this humiliation. Almost, but not quite. Draco was going to have to think of a way to get him back later.

“Now that that’s done,” Moody said, “it’s time to go.” He started breaking them into pairs, keeping close to Draco as he did so so not as to lose him in the sea of bespectacled, messy-haired self-sacrificers. Half of the group was on thestral, but thankfully for Draco, Moody had gone with a broom. He hadn’t forgotten his last trip on one of the bloody animals, and he wasn’t in the mood to ride one to his death tonight. 

Shacklebolt did the spell that made Potter disappear like a chameleon, blending in with the horrid floral wallpaper of the sitting room. Hagrid had already vanished, the only indication of his presence being the heavy creak of the floorboards as he shifted. Draco was marched outside, Moody’s grip tight on his arm, unrelenting, even as Draco tried to squirm free.

“I hope you’re a good enough flier not to fall off this damn thing,” Moody said. “I’m not rescuing you if you do.”

“Better than you, old man,” Draco muttered under his breath. Moody didn’t take notice, just mounted the broom and looked over his shoulder until Draco did the same, looping his arms around Moody’s middle in the lightest way that would make sure he wouldn’t slip off the end when they were airborne. He was half-tempted to simply start running now, but somehow, he thought that was a bad idea. Getting lost in Muggle England or being apprehended by someone on the wrong side wasn’t in his plans for the evening. Come to think of it, neither was dying in the air, but everyone said _Avada Kedavra_ was quick, and he had the suspicion that if he became a prisoner of war, he’d become very familiar with the art of torture.

“On my mark,” Moody said. “And GO.” Immediately, he kicked off, and once they’d risen two hundred feet in the air, something around them shattered with no noise, a broken enchantment.

And then they were immediately surrounding by a swarm of Death Eaters, robed and flying their own brooms, their masks glowing ghostly-white in the moonlight. Draco made a noise that was swallowed by the rush of air around him, and then the darkness was illuminated with streaks of red and green, Stunners and Killing Curses.

Draco stayed frozen for a moment, spells whipping past him but not hitting, not yet. Moody had taken evasive flying measures, but he wouldn’t last for long, not with all the Death Eaters and with everyone still being so close. Moody had taken action as soon as their adversaries had appeared, whipping his wand out while keeping one hand on his broom. If he wasn’t so scared, Draco would almost be impressed.

“WHAT--ARE--YOU--DOING--BOY?” Moody shouted above the din of battle, each word punctuated with a different spell. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to shock Draco out of his stupor. He raised his wand hand, woodenly at first, stiltedly, but as another curse sang past his head, he began to fight. He hardly knew what he was yelling, some sort of steady stream of the most debilitating spells he knew, flying out every which way without any sort of proper aim, but it was enough. When one of his Stunning spells hit someone dead on, sending them flying off of their broom, Draco hardly had time to whoop in victory before something seared against his leg.

Draco almost toppled off of the broom with the sudden, sharp pain, throbbing and hot. In front of him, Moody fought to keep control. Their pursuers--only three now, but still enough of a threat that Draco’s heart pounded with it--swooped around them.

“Get ahold of yourself,” Moody yelled, swerving hard right, which almost sent Draco off the broom again. He was close enough to touch one of the Death Eaters, and when said wizard raised his arm to strike, that’s exactly what Draco did in a panic, seize his attackers robes and _pulled_. Through a stroke of pure luck, that was right when Moody decided to take a sharp turn and the Death Eater was unseated with an almighty tug. Draco probably lost most of the skin of his hands on the rough tweed of the robe, and it was only by the grace of Merlin that he kept ahold of his wand, but that was another one down.

Moody took out another of their pursuers with a well timed _Avada Kedavra_ , just ruthless enough that Draco felt uneasy, and then their last opponent decided he’d had enough, because he suddenly shot in the other direction as though summoned by something.

Draco slumped forward, keeping one hand on the wood of the broom handle as his other kneaded the steadily-growing agony that was his left calf. He was about to snap something at Moody in the aftermath, congratulate him on an awful plan or something to that nature, when Moody sort of keeled sideways, almost falling off himself.

For a wild second, all Draco could think about was Longbottom’s first flying lesson, with the number of times someone’d almost fallen off of their broom in such a short amount of time, but he luckily had enough forethought to seize Moody’s arm before he could tumble off, yanking hard enough with his raw hand to steady them again. He was almost sure they were going to spiral to their death, but Moody regained some sort of equilibrium and groggily righted the broom’s steering.

It was only then that he noticed his hand was covered in blood.

Draco began to curse under his breath. “Don’t you dare die on me, you crazy lunatic,” he warned, and to his surprise, Moody only chuckled lowly.

“Don’t get your pretty head in a bunch, boy,” he croaked. “Had a lot worse than this.”

“Don’t let us crash then!” Draco yelped, seizing control of the front handle as Moody accidentally coaxed the broom into a downward dive.

“Stop distracting me and I won’t,” Moody snapped, but he sounded very weak, which wasn’t doing much for Draco’s confidence of getting out of this alive. They plodded along for nearly twenty minutes, punctuated by Draco’s attempts to keep Moody conscious by yelling in his ear. The pain in Draco’s leg was steady and all-encompassing, making him almost nauseous with it, and when they finally began a controlled descent, Draco’s stomach went weak in relief. The Polyjuice had long since worn off, and his clothes were now ill-fitting and heavy with the mist accumulated on them at the altitude they’d been flying at.

Draco felt the _pop_ of wards being broken, and then they touched down rather hard in the front garden of a ramshackle house. Draco rolled off of the broom as soon as he could, keeping his weight off of his injured leg as he rejoiced being on the ground again. The thickets around him were almost too high to see over, but he could hear Moody moving slowly.

“What is this dump?” Draco demanded as soon as he found the strength to pull himself unsteadily to his feet. He had to lean heavily to his right to be able to stand comfortably, and his muscles were shaking with exertion and the absence of adrenaline, but at the moment, he was just happy to be alive.

“My house,” Moody said gruffly, as he began to stump towards the hut. He seemed rather more lively than he had on the broom, but Draco could see the sticky cling of Moody’s robes to his side, 

“You _live_ here?” Draco asked, aghast.

“Not all of us grew up in the lap of luxury,” Moody grunted. “Now come on, boy. We missed our Portkey, and I have to make a new one before I lose my strength.” He sounded grim, but determined, and Draco was quite ready to be out of his presence.

The door was wrenched open with an almighty creak, and Moody let out a small gasp of hurt that was quickly masked, as though he thought Draco might exploit it. Once inside, Draco made sure to keep his distance as Moody lit the candles and began rummaging through his trunk, pausing every once and again to catch his breath.

“Hurry up,” Draco said tightly.

“Shut your mouth,” Moody said, almost absently, and then he unearthed an old flowerpot.

“ _That’s_ what you were looking for?” asked Draco incredulously. “Portkeys can be made out of anything! What are we dallying for?” He was getting nervous, remembering the impostor Moody from his fourth year, and he skirted closer to the wall just in case.

“This one has a direct line to the Weasleys,” Moody said gruffly. “That sort of thing is hard to conjure up on your own. But if you’re so _smart_ , why don’t you go ahead and activate it?”

Draco didn’t say anything as Moody glowered at him, just scowled at his feet, and sure enough, Moody gave up trying to humiliate Draco and enacted the charm himself. 

“It’s leaving in a minute,” Moody said. “Or are you going to stay here?”

Draco stayed quiet, getting close enough to press one finger to the flowerpot and nothing more. It seemed like an eternity before he felt the Portkey begin to pull him away from Moody’s house, and then he slammed into the ground, his breath punched out of him in a tough exhale. 

“Who is it?” someone called harshly, and then Draco looked up to see Shacklebolt and Lupin charging them, wands raised.

“It’s me, Kingsley,” Moody said, but he looked as though he’d finally used up all of his strength, unable to even pull himself up to his feet.

“What was the advice Dumbledore gave to you at our last meeting?” Kingsley boomed, pointing his wand directly at Moody’s head. Lupin had his own wand directed at Draco’s heart, as Draco’s own wand was held limply at his side. He hadn’t even gotten off of his knees yet; trust the Order of the Phoenix for such a welcome after a surprise attack.

“Trust your instincts, Alastair,” Moody intoned without inflection. “They will not lead you astray.”

Kingsley’s arm lowered slightly, enough that his wand wasn’t much of a threat any longer. “It’s him, Remus,” he assured, but Lupin didn’t relax his posture.

“Who did you tell?” he demanded.

“Excuse me?” Draco asked, flabbergasted. He was dirty and tired, and his leg was hurting so much at that point that he was almost sure it wouldn’t support his weight, and what Lupin was asking didn’t compute.

Potter stepped forward out of the clump of people that was gathered outside of the rundown house that Draco assumed to be the Weasleys’. “Stand down, Remus,” he said seriously, but it did no good.

“Who did you tell about leaving tonight?” Lupin asked again. “Who did you betray us to?”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Draco snapped. He was in no mood for this tomfoolery. “I haven’t betrayed you to anyone.”

“Remus, _stand down_ ,” Potter repeated, more sternly than before. “He’s not lying.”  
 “You don’t know that, Harry,” Lupin said. “We can’t trust him. Think of who his family is.”

“Some people wouldn’t trust you because of what you are,” Draco parroted. “Bet you don’t like that, do you, you great werewolf.”

“Draco, shut it,” Harry said, and then turned his attention back to Lupin. “I know him. He didn’t have the chance to tip anyone off. And the Malfoys are Sirius’s family too.”

Lupin’s shoulder sagged a little, enough that Draco didn’t feel like he was in imminent danger of being cursed. “Harry,” he began, a little hesitantly, but Potter cut him off.

“Think about it,” Potter said, almost urgently. “He’s a Slytherin, only out for himself. There’s no way he’d come back here if he’d given us up. He’s too smart for that.”

“Unless he was spying,” Lupin pointed out.

“There’s no way _he_ could be a spy,” Potter said. “He’s an awful actor, and a coward to boot.”

“Bugger off, Potter,” Draco muttered.

“And he could have overpowered Moody in his state right now,” Granger piped up. She’d approached them without Draco noticing, looking shaken and pale. “He could have gotten away.”

“If Voldemort was forcing him--” Lupin started again, and Draco flinched from the name.

“When would Draco have had the chance to talk to Voldemort?” Potter asked plaintively. “It’s not as if he’s been wandering around outside of Hogwarts or Privet Drive in the last year. And, anyway, Remus, I trust him enough to know that he’s on our side right now, as long as it benefits him to be. I’ll take responsibility for that.”

Lupin finally lowered his wand fully, pointing it at the grass in a defeated sort of motion. “If you’re sure, Harry.”   
“I am,” Potter said in a final sort of way.

“Now that we’re done with this idle chit-chat,” Moody growled, his voice muffled, as he was almost face-down in the dirt, “d’you think someone could help me inside before I bloody bleed to death?”

“Oh!” someone said, breaking off from the group. It turned out to be Draco’s cousin, her blue hair nearly a beacon in the moonlight. “Mad-Eye, you idiot, what did you get yourself into this time?”

“Just got on the wrong side of a severing charm,” Moody explained. “And the boy--think something mucked with his leg, though he’s too proud to admit it. And for God’s sake, will someone check to make sure he’s really who he says he is? A fine end to the evening it would be if we find out we let a Death Eater into the Burrow without explanation.

Potter rolled his eyes, a gesture that Draco could pick up even in the dim light, and asked, “What did you call my cousin behind his back, Draco?” 

“Rumpy,” Draco answered promptly. He thought he had been more secretive about the nickname, but apparently not. 

“And what’s his real name?” Potter continued.

“I don’t know,” Draco scoffed. “He’s a _Muggle_. Why should I care?” 

“It’s him,” Potter said. “Or, at least, it’s the Draco I’ve known for the past year or so. I guess he could be an impostor if he’s been pretending since the beginning.”

“I haven’t, you lump,” Draco said indignantly.

“This is silly,” Granger interrupted. “We have more important things to worry about. Let’s just get them inside so we can patch them up.”

Shacklebolt and Lupin immediately moved to help Moody, leaving Draco alone in the mud and unsure if he could stand. He did his damnedest to get onto his feet though, because he wasn’t about it show unnecessary weakness in front of the people who’d just accused him of being a turncoat. Not that they were absolutely off of their mark; it was something Draco might be inclined to do given the chance, but for them to think he was stupid enough to run back to them after the plan was over and done with--that was a blow to his pride.

He had nearly staggered to a balanced position when his leg gave a throb of pain and collapsed beneath him, sending him cursing back into the mud.

“Here, let me help you,” Potter murmured, finally noticing Draco’s plight, but Draco was in a bad enough mood to slap away Potter’s proffered hand.

“I can bloody well stand on my own,” Draco snapped.

Potter just raised an eyebrow, and took a step back, waiting, and when Draco got up a second time only to lose his balance again, Potter was there, quick enough to keep Draco from splattering his robes with mud again.

“Stop being such a prick,” he admonished, but it had no heat. Draco scowled, making token protests as Potter maneuvered them into a position that allowed Draco to be able to walk without too much trouble, and they slowly limped into the hovel, Moody’s body floating several meters in front of them, buoyed by Lupin’s charm.

When they finally got inside, Potter helped Draco lower himself onto a dumpy couch but didn’t sit down himself, just stood rigidly, watching as Weasley’s mother and Draco’s half-blood travesty of a cousin work on Moody’s wound. Granger came over, delicately kneeling in front of Draco, and he glowered and looked away.

She wasn’t taking it though, too much of a stubborn Gryffindor. “How’s your leg?” she asked brusquely, brushing her fingers against the fabric of his trousers. He flinched away from her, nearly catching her in the side with his shoe as he did so.

“It’s fine,” he said sarcastically. “Never better.”

“Stop being a baby,” she chided. “Let me see.”

“Leave it _alone_ , Granger,” he said. “I don’t your Mudblood hands touching it.”

“You watch your mouth, Malfoy,” Weasley said, trying to be threatening and failing miserably as he approached.

“Stop it,” Potter said wearily. “Both of you. Draco, let Hermione look at your leg. She’ll probably be able to help.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Draco said haughtily.

Potter squared his jaw, and said, “You’re being an arsehole over nothing. We have more important things to worry about right now. Just let Hermione fix you up.”

The way he said it made Draco feel like a child, which made him even madder. Part of him wanted to be contrary, to keep refusing the help until Granger gave up and went away, but at the same time, his leg had been on fire for too long now, and the pain was making him woozy.

“Get it over with then,” he told her, as if he was doing her a favor and not the other way around. She sighed, a sharp heavy sound, but began to tenderly roll his pants leg up, using a gentle severing charm when it got too tight above the knee.

“Some sort of Blistering hex,” she said, mostly to herself. Draco was having enough trouble as it was to not get sick at the sight of the mottled purple skin, burned and scarred.

“Ron, does your mother have any burn cream in the cupboard?” she asked. “Something strong?”

“I’ll check,” Weasley said shortly, stalking off into the kitchen.

“I don’t think there’s anything we can do without Madame Pomfrey besides put some salve on it, and maybe Murtlap essence,” she explained. “Burn healing is notoriously difficult.”

“Glad to see you’re of such great help, Granger,” Draco spat.

Weasley came back, his mum in tow, holding a chipped purple bowl that was emitting a medicinal smell strong enough that it stuck in Draco’s nose. “I’ll put it on, dear,” Weasley’s mother said, gesturing Granger out of the way, and Draco felt his lip curl involuntarily. He could see Potter giving him a warning look out of the corner of his eye though, so he didn’t say anything even though he desperately wanted to. 

Her hands were cool, a shock as they began to rub cream into his skin. Draco almost told her he could do it on his own, if only for the relief of her not touching him, but the pain was too great, and he didn’t think he could manage. He sat there stiffly for several long minutes as the pain slowly ebbed away into a dull throb. When the job was done, she sat back on her haunches and looked at him, her eyes so startlingly bleak for a second that Draco couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit sorry for her.

“Did you see what happened to my husband and Fred?” she asked steadily. “They haven’t been back yet.”

Draco was about to say something snide about how he wasn’t surprised, how Weasleys are useless in a fight, about how she should be happy that the world was free of two more Blood Traitors, but the words stuck in his throat at her expression. Instead, he thought back to the battle, to the bodies around him, flying and attacking and defending, of the countless Potters and their Protectors, but he wasn’t able to conjure up anything that would console her. He managed only a short jerk of the head no, and her mouth tightened before she stood up again, all business.

“You and Harry will be staying in Ron’s room,” she said, without emotion. “Harry, you should get him up there. You both look dead on your feet, and there’s nothing more you can do tonight.”

Potter looked at the floor a little to the right of Draco’s feet for a long moment. “I’ll take him up, Mrs. Weasley,” he said softly, like Draco was an invalid that needed looking after. She nodded curtly and swept away into the kitchen, as though being in the room was causing her pain.

“C’mon,” Potter said softly, offering a hand that Draco refused as he gingerly got to his feet. The pain wasn’t so awful now, a little muted, and he’d shown enough weakness in front of these Gryffindors to last him a while.

“We’re staying done here,” Granger informed them, her hand resting on Weasley’s forearm. “For a little while. We’ll let you know if there’s any news.”

“Thanks,” said Potter gratefully, and then to Draco, “It’s this way.”

Draco followed silently until they were on the third floor landing and out of earshot. “What, does she think I’m going to murder them all in her sleep if I stay in her drawing room?” he asked crossly. She might have thought she was being subtle, but Draco had seen the mistrustful look flash his way when she’d been dressing his wounds.

“Her husband and son have disappeared,” Potter snapped harshly. “I think she’s allowed to act however she wants to.” The _towards you_ was unspoken but implied, and Draco was surprised to find that it hurt a little.

“I’ll leave then,” he snarled. “If I’m such a hardship.”

He turned, faltering only a little as he braced himself for the trip back down the stairs, and only Potter’s hand on his shoulder, heavy and implacable, stopped him from going further. “That’s not what I meant,” Potter sighed.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Draco sniffed, shrugging off Potter’s touch. 

“She’s been through a lot tonight,” Potter said, “and your family hasn’t exactly been good to her in the past.”  
 “Nice of her to judge me,” Draco said.

“You’ve brought on yourself enough times before,” Potter reminded him, almost gently. “She’s letting you stay here because I told her it was safe. Don’t make me regret it.”

“I’m not going to attack everyone in their sleep,” Draco protested.

Potter’s laugh is maudlin, lacking humor. “I know,” he said. “You’re much too cunning for that.”

“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that I have nothing planned,” Draco said heatedly.

“It’s not me you have to convince,” replied Potter. “Now are you coming or not?”

“I guess,” Draco said grudgingly. He followed Potter up two more rickety flights until they shouldered their way into a tiny room that was so orange, it practically made Draco’s eyes burn.

“Of course he supports the Cannons,” Draco muttered, earning another hard glare from Potter. Potter gestured towards one of the camp beds set up haphazardly in the corner, sagging and stained with a couple mothballed blankets folded on top. 

“You can take that one,” Potter said. “I’ve got this one.” He’d claimed the one closest to the bed Draco assumed to be Weasley’s, but it still didn’t rankle less. 

“I’m not sleeping on that,” said Draco haughtily. “It’s _filthy_. Not that I was expecting much else.”

“It’s either that or the floor,” Potter said blandly. “I can tell you right now that no one in this house is going to give up their bed for you.”

Draco considered making a stand for it, demanding that he be allowed to sleep in Weasley’s bed, but then again, it was _Weasley’s bed_ , and if Draco was going to make any headway in getting what he wanted over the course of however long he was stuck like this, he knew he needed to pick and choose his battles.

“Fine,” Draco said shortly, plopping down heavily on his cot and wrinkling his nose and a cloud of dust rose into the air around him. “If I end up diseased, I’m blaming you.”

“You do that,” Potter replied, sitting down on his own bed, and as Draco readied himself, feeling more tired than normal, aching for a shower but lacking the energy to actually attempt one. He lied down, careful to pull the cleanest blanket over him, but as he turned to try and get comfortable, he noticed that Potter was still sitting in the same position, looking forlorn and plaintive.

“Get over yourself,” Draco found himself saying without really meaning it.

Potter’s head snapped up, as if he’d forgotten Draco was in the room. “What?” he asked, disbelief coloring his tone.

“Get over yourself,” Draco repeated. “It’s not your fault, so you can just go and stop feeling all that stupid self-pity.”

That got a reaction, and Potter was on his feet before Draco could register the flash of fury across his face. “One,” Potter said, ticking off the number on his finger, “it most certainly is my fault. Two, it’s not me I’m feeling sorry for. And three, that’s rich, coming from you, telling me to get over myself.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Draco said, over-enunciating in this sort of condescending way he’d perfected when he was twelve, “but they volunteered for it, didn’t they? They were of age, and they knew it would be dangerous, but they wanted to do it. You didn’t come up with the plan, you didn’t force them to go through with it, you didn’t know there’d be an attack...so how, exactly, is it your fault?”

“They died protecting me,” Potter yelled, throwing his hands over his head. 

“They’re not dead yet,” Draco reasoned. “Now you’re just speculating. And you’re feeling sorry for yourself. Poor Harry Potter--everyone dies for you because they want to make you miserable. Not because they think you have some good to do. No. It’s a personal vendetta.”

Potter’s cheeks were Weasley red. “You don’t get what you’re talking about, Malfoy,” he spat, hunching his shoulders.

“You need to get your head out of your arse and think of a way to stop this,” Draco shot back. “Or else more people will die, and knowing you, you’ll think it’s your fault for every last one of them.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do!” Potter shouted, waving his hands.

“From where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re brooding,” Draco said primly. “But far be it from me to question your processes, I guess.”

Potter was quiet for a moment, blinking owlishly behind his big glasses, and then he said, “He’s my best friend. And that’s his dad and his brother, and they might be dead. They might be dead because I sat with him on the train. How am I supposed to face him?”

“Come off it,” Draco scoffed. “Weasley isn’t going to blame you for this. Wasn’t he one of the people trying to talk you into that fool plan in the first place? _You_ didn’t come up with it. And Merlin knows that you would’ve sacrificed yourself, stupid prat that you are, if it had come down to it. Don’t be so dramatic, and either go to bed, or go console the redheads. It doesn’t matter to me. Just don’t be loud about it. Some of us have actual injuries to heal from.”

Draco slumped down, pulling the blanket about him, ready to yell at Potter should he speak again, spouting off more tosh, but nothing came. Instead, several minutes later, Potter extinguished the light and left the room, and Draco fell asleep soon after.

**

When morning came, Draco found himself awaking to the unpleasant feeling of being too warm, and it took him a second to figure out why. Instead of kipping in his own camp bed, as he should’ve, Potter was smashed up against Draco, nearly overbalancing the whole thing. His face was buried in the nape of Draco’s neck, and from the way he was breathing, Draco could tell he was still asleep, which only made things incrementally better.

“Potter, what are you doing in my bed?” he demanded loudly, as if this was the first time they’d ever shared sleeping quarters. Potter started awake and nearly upended himself onto the floor.

“Wha’?” Potter mumbled. 

“What are you doing?” Draco asked again, crossly. He’d ascertained that the bedroom was empty--thank Circe--but it didn’t mean that Potter had the right to act like a limpet and molest Draco in his sleep.

Potter extricated himself from the blanket in a flail of limbs, ripping the warmth of it away as he took a couple of strides towards the window. His face was clear of sleep confusion, hard and set, and he doesn’t have to say anything for Draco to understand that it’s bad news.

“Mr. Weasley came back early this morning,” he said tonelessly, his gaze listing over the scenery outside rather than anywhere inside the room.

“Alive?” Draco asked. 

“Yes,” Potter said shortly. “But Fred. He.”

“Oh,” Draco said.

“He just came in, holding Fred’s body,” Potter said quietly. “Everyone broke down. Spare Killing Curse.”

Draco didn’t have anything to say to that, so he didn’t speak. Anything that might come from his mouth would either be a tasteless taunt or insincere, and he didn’t want to deepen that look on Potter’s face.

“There’s going to be a funeral. _Another_ one.” His hands were shaking, white where he’d grabbed hold of the windowsill. Draco sat up, ran a hand through his hair, and thought very carefully before he spoke again.   
“It’s still not your fault,” he said brusquely. It wasn’t exactly in a comforting way, but something told him it was what Potter needed to hear.

“It feels like it is,” Potter said, and good Merlin, his eyes were watering slightly, although his voice betrayed none of it. Draco wasn’t entirely sure he could deal with _that_ this morning, not after everything.

“It’s war, Potter,” said Draco. “They signed up for the Order. They had more of a choice than you did, I expect. It’s always been a threat, dying.”

“Guess everyone should act more like you,” Potter said, but it wasn’t mocking. “We’d all live longer.”

“Probably good advice,” agreed Draco. “But you Gryffindors would never go for it. Too self-serving.”

“I should probably go downstairs,” Potter said, but he looked like there wasn’t much he’d rather not do than venture outside of Weasley’s room.

“Am I stuck in here?” Draco asked. “Are they going to throw a fit if I show my face?”

Potter turned then, just a little, the light from outside reflecting in his glasses. “No,” he said. “Just. Don’t be a prat.”

“I can play nice,” Draco said, his lip curling a little. “But only if they return the favor.”

“For me, Draco? Please?” Potter wasn’t pleading, but his brow was furrowed in this innocent, little-boy way.

“I’ll think about it,” said Draco, and that was the closest he’d come to obeying. “Not that I owe you anything.”

“Of course you don’t,” Potter sighed. “I know. Are you coming?”

“Might as well, Draco said, standing gingerly. 

**

The atmosphere for the next couple of days was, in a word, tense. Half of the Weasleys kept glowering at him, even though Draco was careful to keep out of their way, and sometimes not even Potter could stop them from sniping about something, although it luckily never degenerated into spellwork.

They held the funeral in the back yard, the sun beating down on everyone’s black formal attire. Draco stayed in the very back, hidden by Hagrid’s girth, and halfway through, Potter slipped beside him and sort of grabbed Draco’s hand, something he’d never done as obviously before. Draco meant to pull away, but Potter’s face was streaked with tears, and he looked so utterly pathetic that Draco couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Afterwards, when Weasley’s mum had shut herself in her bedroom, Potter broke away from the brood of wet-faced Weasleys, found Draco, and pulled him outside.

“What are you doing, Potter?” Draco sighed, letting himself be pulled along. Potter’s grip was tight on his wrist, and he was stumbling over the knots in the ground trying to keep up, but he didn’t have the energy to pull away.   
“Stop talking,” said Potter shortly, skirting the perimeter of what Draco assumed to be the wards until the Weasleys’ lopsided house was no longer in view. It was cool, unseasonably so, and the mist blowing over the ground made Draco think uncomfortably of Dementors skulking about the countryside. He shivered a little, both from the mental picture and the breeze, and leaned against the trunk of the tree Potter had led them too.

“What did you bring me out here for?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. Potter looked dejected, a little red-eyed, and his hair was mussed, but he seemed determined to do whatever it was that he’d planned when he dragged Draco away from the house. 

At first, Draco thought Potter was going to say something, go into a diatribe about how things were his fault and boo-hoo about it, but instead Potter just stepped in closed and slotted his mouth against Draco’s, wet heat.

It felt--nice, even through the slight shock of it, because this wasn’t what Draco had been expecting. It had been a while since the last time they’d done anything like... _this_ , what with the Muggles and Dumbledore dying, and Potter’s secret plot.

The strange newness that Draco had felt when they first started this quasi-dysfunctional-relationship-thing had disappeared into familiarity. When Potter brushed his hand against the side of Draco’s neck, he arched into it instead of backing away, letting it raise goosebumps on his flesh. The kiss was hard, almost desperate, and it felt _good_ to let go like that.

Potter broke away gently without stepping back, just looked at Draco cross-eyed through his glasses like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words for it. 

“What are you doing?” Draco asked, and even though it was an opening for a badly timed joked, Potter just shrugged one shoulder and moved a tiny bit closer, near enough that Draco could practically feel the Potter’s body heat.

“I don’t want to think,” he explained. “This is the best way I know how to stop.”

There wasn’t anything to say to that, even if Draco wasn’t sure if he should be insulted that Potter was using him as a distraction to forget that they’d buried someone that morning. Potter didn’t give him the chance for a rebuttal as he slid his lips over Draco’s again, kissing him until Draco could feel his chest tightening with it.

He didn’t know how long they stood there, Potter bracketing him against the tree, but too soon, Potter’s hand twitched and he pulled back to look behind them. Distantly Draco could hear someone crashing through the undergrowth, unnecessarily loud, which was almost comforting--if this was supposed to be a surprise attack, their assailant was doing a piss-poor job of it.

Sure enough, Granger broke through the hedge and spotted them. There was something caught in her hair, and she looked even more harried than usual, her brow furrowed.

“Granger,” Draco said smoothly, noting how Potter didn’t step away as she approached them.

“What’s wrong, Hermione?” Potter asked instantly, like his disappearance had caused the earth to implode or some such nonsense.

“Nothing’s _wrong_ ,” she hedged, but she kept looking back in the direction towards the Weasleys’ house. “It’s just--the Minister of Magic is here. He’s looking for you.”

“Seriously?” Draco said before Potter could respond. “You’re so important that the Rufus Scrimgeour himself makes a house call to visit you?”

Potter just looked surprised, arching an eyebrow. “What does he want?” he asked. “If it’s anything like the last time, I hope you told him to shove it.”

“He’s come before?” Draco asked before he could stop himself. 

“I don’t know,” she responded. “He won’t say anything without you there.”

“He’s so tactless,” Potter complained. “Why did he come today? Of all days?”

“I don’t know,” she said tiredly. “Are you coming or should I make an excuse? Only, Harry, I think it’s important we listen to what he has to say.”

“Fine, fine, let’s go,” sighed Potter.

“Stop ignoring me,” Draco said crossly. “What does the Minister of Magic want to do with you?”

Potter started off slowly, as if he was dreading the confrontation. “He’s a prat,” he said. “After everything happened with Fudge, he wanted my support and he was mad that I wouldn’t give it to him.”

“He wanted your support?” Draco asked flatly.

“Long story,” Potter said. “He thought it would help him last longer in office. But I wasn’t going to help him, not when he was being so stupid about Voldemort.”

“Of course,” Draco said. “You and your morals, Potter.”

“Someone has to keep you in line,” Potter said, and there was the tiniest quirk of a smile on his face.

“I resent that,” Draco said. 

**

 

Scrimgeour was imposing, standing alone in the Weasleys’ sitting room. He arched his eyebrow when Draco came in, following Potter and Granger, and asked quite plainly for Draco to leave them be. Draco, of course, loitered on the stairs, hidden from eyesight, but close enough to eavesdrop. He was mildly interested, and besides, if Weaselette was going to be doing it, so was he.

It was all a lot of posturing in the end, though. Some quaint bequeaths from Dumbledore’s will, and a stiff conversation, and then he was sweeping away, presumably to continue with more important things. Why he decided it was upon him to act as the caretaker of Dumbledore’s estate, Draco didn’t know, but it was interesting enough to note for future reference.

The Minister didn’t stay long, and Draco had to duck behind the banister so as not to be seen when he left, sweeping his robes. He gave himself to the count of thirty to descend the stairs, letting Weaslette reveal her eavesdropping ways first before he crept into the room, skirting around the edge of the rug to peek over Potter’s shoulder. Granger was thumbing through the ratty old book thoughtfully, and Weasley was playing with his--contraption, for lack of a better word--while his sister looked on, but Potter was just staring at his snitch, almost reverently.

“I wonder why it didn’t do anything when you touched it,” Granger mused, not looking up. “If it was programmed to react to sense memory.”

“Because he didn’t catch that one with his hand,” Draco pointed out, as Potter ran his finger along the ridges of the snitch. “He caught it in his mouth, like a great, bloody idiot.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Weasley, looking up from his Put-Outer. “I’d forgotten about that.”

Potter didn’t look surprised at the information, but Draco very much doubted that he’d forgotten the circumstances of his first Quidditch victory. Slowly, almost as if he was dreading it, Potter brought the snitch to his lips, pursing them as if he was preparing for a kiss.

Draco was expecting something exciting to happen, but nothing did. Potter pulled the snitch from his mouth and looked at it.

“That’s it?” Weasley asked incredulously. “Nothing happened.”

“There’s something written on it,” Potter said suddenly. “I open at the close.”

The room was quiet, and then Draco interjected, “If that’s supposed to be a riddle, then Dumbledore’s was a bigger arse than I thought he was.”

“Dumbledore was a great wizard,” Granger said primly. “Harry, do you know what it means?”

“No idea,” Potter said numbly.

“Are you sure?” Granger pestered.

“If he said anything like this,” Potter said, “I don’t remember it.”

“Oh,” Granger said and then, “Well, we’ll just have to figure it out, now won’t we?

“Guess so,” said Weasley glumly. “Although don’t we have enough on our plate as is?”

No one had any response to that, not even Draco.

**

When the Ministry fell, it was almost an anticlimax. Potter and Weasley were in the sitting room playing Chess, as though they didn’t have anything better to do, while Draco watched them, because he truly _did_ have nothing better to do. Granger, of course, was reading. The rest of the Weasley family was milling about, somewhere, moping or obsessing or doing whatever it was that Blood Traitors did when they were in mourning.

And then a Patronus burst through the door, some kind of weasel, and burst out one sentence that echoed throughout the house in Weasley’s dad’s voice. “The Ministry has fallen,” it said and then promptly vanished

It was instant pandemonium. Potter upended the chessboard as he stood up, leaving Weasley flailing on the ground, and Granger immediately took hold of her bag, some garish pink thing she’d taken to carting all over the house. Draco heard the _pop_ that seemed to signify something important, and outside he could see the shimmer of the wards falling, which wasn’t a good sign.

“We’ve got to go,” Potter said demandingly, and before Draco could even ask where, Potter grabbed a hold of his wrist and pulled him into the middle of the room where Weasley had scrambled to get to Granger.

“What are you doing?” Draco asked. “Potter--what--” But before he could even finish a thought in his head, he felt the familiar pull of Side-Along Apparition, and they were gone.

When they reappeared, Draco staggered a little, feeling out of place and disoriented. When he got his bearings and looked around, he had no clue as to where they were. Immediately Granger herded them all into a dingy alley, hiding them from view of the crowded street.

“Where are we?” Weasley asked wonderingly.

“Muggle London,” Granger replied succinctly. “It was the first place I could think of.”

“Is there a reason you just pushed us back here?” Draco asked in disgust. There were two bins behind him overflowing with rotten _Muggle_ garbage, and why Granger had Apparated them _there_ of all places, Draco couldn’t guess.

“You’re wearing robes, Draco,” Potter said slowly. “You’ll attract too much attention.”

“Of course I’m wearing robes,” Draco sniped. “It’s what wizards wear, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Not here they don’t,” Potter said.

“I have something,” Granger said.

“In that tiny bag?” Weasley asked. “We’re lucky we even have our wands on us.”

“I have my Invisibility Cloak,” Potter said morosely, “but not much else.”

“Lucky for you, I planned ahead,” Granger explained, pulling out a pair of trousers and a truly ugly jumper. 

“How did you fit that in there?” Weasley asked suspiciously.

“Expansion charm, Ron,” Granger said dryly. “We’ve only known it since Fifth Year. Now put these on, Draco.”

“You can’t be serious,” Draco said. “You want me to change here? In this alley? Into these Muggle clothes?”

“You wore them at my aunt and uncle’s house,” Potter pointed out.

“Those weren’t rags pulled from Granger’s purse,” Draco said. 

“Just put them on so we can get out of here,” Potter said exasperatedly. “I don’t like the idea of staying longer than we have to.”

Draco’s skin prickled a little at that, as if a Death Eater was about to turn the corner and attack them all. It took some maneuvering, but he managed to dress himself without revealing too much skin. He didn’t trust Weasley not to look, the bleeding pervert, so it took longer than it perhaps should have.

Once they ducked out from the alley, the wonder trio immediately broke into argument as Draco allowed himself to lag behind, cautious of the passersby who were clogging the streets. He didn’t much like Muggle London, and already he was finding it hard to breathe through the amalgamation of artificial smoke.

“We don’t know how safe Grimmauld Place will be,” Granger was arguing. “With Dumbledore as its Secret Keeper, it very well could have been invaded by Death Eaters by now.”

“So what instead?” demanded Weasley. “We need to have a place to go!”

Draco lost interest in their squabbling and began examining the Muggles. He felt off-kilter by the sudden change of the day, dizzy with it, and suspicion was churning in his chest. Something didn’t feel right, and he wasn’t sure he could attribute it all to being out of his element here with the magic-less.

When they walk by a group of men who seem to be digging into the ground for some reason, Draco didn’t pay them much attention until one of them stared at Potter. Something flip-flopped in Draco’s stomach as he recognized him, an old acquaintance of his father’s, and the way he was looking at them did nothing to make Draco think they weren’t in trouble. 

He let them get several paces ahead of their pursuant before allowing himself the time to hiss in Potter’s ear. “Whatever it is you’re arguing about, make a decision _fast_. You’re about to be fried by a Death Eater.”

Potter stiffened, but to his credit didn’t show any outward signs of alarm. “Let’s get a coffee, shall we?” he offered, gesturing to a dump just ahead, derelict and ignored.

“Harry, now is not the time,” Granger said impatiently.

“I really think we need a coffee, Hermione,” Potter said tightly and something about his tone must have registered, because they all wheeled into the restaurant together. The lone waitress looked up in surprise, as though she couldn’t believe to have actual customers, and bustled over as soon as they sat down.

“Four coffees, please,” Granger said primly.

“Sure thing,” she responded, sweeping back to the counter as quick as you please.

“Harry, what?” Granger started, but the door opened again, allowing two men to lumber through. Draco grabbed a hold of Potter’s wrist and squeezed it, his other hand curled around his wand under the table.

“Death Eaters,” Potter mouthed and then, “Duck!”

The explosion of spellwork was instantaneous. Draco immediately dove underneath the table, dodging shoes and kicking feet as he planted himself at the wall, wand at the ready, but the fight was fast and furious, leaving Draco no need to utter a single incantation.

“What should we do with them?” fretted Granger. “And the Muggle?”

“Obliviate?” suggested Weasley, albeit uncertainly. “And thanks so much for your help, Malfoy,” he added as Draco crawled out from under the table.

“Thank you, Draco,” Draco parroted, “for pointing the Death Eaters out to me in the first place. We might’ve been attacked in the streets if it weren’t for you.”

“Stop it now,” Granger said. “Both of you. We have more important things to worry about.”

“We’ll have to wipe their memory,” Potter said decisively. “There’s no other way.”

In the end, they let Granger deal with the tricky spellwork, ducking out of the back door in case attention had gathered outside due to the noise.

“Hermione, we _have_ to go to Grimmauld place,” Potter said gravely as they ducked around some overflowing bin bags. “There’s nowhere else to go.”

“But Harry, Snape could’ve gotten there already,” Granger protested. “It could be a trap.”

“We’re just going to have to risk it,” Potter said. “In any case, I don’t believe that Moody would have left without doing some sort of jinx to protect the house. Who knows what Kreacher and Mrs. Black overhead.”

“If you’re sure,” Granger hedged.

“What is this place we’re talking about,” Draco asked tensely. “Not another awful idea, is it?”

“The old headquarters,” Potter replied succinctly. “I own it. It used to be my godfather’s.”

“Let’s get going then,” Weasley said uneasily, darting his gaze around the alley they were sequestered in. “I don’t want to be attacked again.”

They Apparated side-by-side, Draco using Potter’s arm as a guide to their final destination, and when they popped into view again, it was on a dismal Muggle street. Draco automatically wrinkled his nose, as Granger, Potter, and Weasley started forward. They vanished suddenly, as soon as they crossed the threshold of the lawn, leaving Draco stranded on the street.

“Where’d you lot go?” Draco hissed, wary, and Potter popped back into view again.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “It’s under a Fidelius charm. Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.”

The house squeezed itself out, pushing the walls on either side of it until it was regularly-sized. It was even worse-looking than its neighbors. Granger and Weasley were waiting for them at the doorstep, wands raised, so Draco followed suit.

“On three,” Potter mouthed, and once he’d ticked down the numbers on one hand, he pushed open the door. Nothing was there, so they all stepped inside, wands still ready. All of a sudden, something popped up from the floorboards, looking like a rotting corpse, arm outreached. 

“ _Severus Snape_?” the thing demanded, surging forward before any of them could get a word out, passing through them like a ghost. Draco felt his tongue roll up unpleasantly inside his mouth, but it was only a second before it relaxed again.

“Tongue tying curse,” Granger forced out. “Moody must have animated it somehow.” As she spoke, Draco could feel a blanket of magic settling over him, almost as if it was ascertaining he meant no harm. Nothing happened, but the power stayed between his shoulders like a protective blanket.

The silence didn’t stay for long. Almost immediately, something began to shriek, “ _Mudbloods, nasty Muggle-born filth, scourge of my house_!” 

“Shut up,” Potter roared, showering some sort of portrait with sparks, which caused a curtain to draw closed, masking the noise.

“What on earth was _that_?” Draco asked.

“Sirius’s mother,” said Potter grimly. “A relative of yours....bet she’ll like you more than she does me.”

“Considering my current company, I think not,” Draco muttered.

“I think we should double-check there’s no one in here before we go any further,” Granger said. “ _Homenum Revelio_.” Absolutely nothing happened.

“That was impressive,” Draco told her.

“It did what I meant it to,” she snapped irritably. “It showed me there are no other people inside.”   
“Good,” Potter said, “that’s good. We’ll use this as our home base for now.” He was rubbing at his forehead in this agitated way that did nothing to settle Draco’s nerves.

“Harry, what’s wrong?” Granger asked, sounding alarmed. “Is it your scar?”

“What on earth are you talking about,” said Draco uneasily.

“Yeah,” Potter admitted. “He’s angry.”

“But I thought the connection was shut off,” Granger exclaimed. “You aren’t supposed to be seeing this.”   
“What connection?” Draco asked irritably. “Who’s angry? What’s going on?”

“It did, for a while,” Potter muttered. “But I think, when he looses control...”

“Then you have to close the connection!” Granger said. “Harry, you can’t be letting him in your mind. Not with what we’re about to do.”

“I’ll try,” Potter snapped. “But it’s not like I was any good at Occlumency. I don’t think it will work.”

“Will somebody tell me what the bloody hell is going on?” Draco asked loudly.

Potter turned his attention to Draco as Granger huffed. “Voldemort. Sometimes I can see what he sees, or feel what he feels. Some sort of weird connection.”

Something wriggled unpleasantly in Draco’s stomach. “Well that’s just perfect,” he said. “What if it works the other way around?”

“That’s why Harry needs to close his mind!” Granger said.

“Give it a rest, Hermione,” Potter said tiredly.

“Let’s go to the drawing room,” Weasley said, interrupting the tirade. “We can set up camp there. I don’t know about you lot, but I don’t want to stay in the bedrooms along. They’re creepy.”

Potter staggered a bit, knocking himself into the wall. “Bathroom,” he croaked, then he was gone like a shot, down the hall.

“Not this again,” Weasley muttered. “Hope it’s not as bad as fifth year.”    
“If he would only stop being so _stubborn_ ,” Granger said.

“Please,” responded Draco. “Potter would be rubbish at Occlumency. He doesn’t have the mind for it. We should all just resort ourselves to accepting our imminent deaths.”

“You-Know-Who’s never gotten Harry before though,” said Weasley sagely.

“Well he’s never been so unguarded before, has he?” Draco pointed out testily.

“There’s no point in arguing maybes right now,” Granger interrupted. “Let’s just figure out what we’re to do next.”

**

It took less than ten minutes before Draco tired of Granger’s tirade and Weasley’s mistrustful looks so he decided instead to explore the house in greater detail. It was obviously Dark, and Draco thought it reminiscent of his home, if in disrepair. He trailed his fingers along the tapestries on the wall, looking at the delicate thread work, slowly making his way upstairs. He ducked into one room at random, unnerved by the string of house elf heads strung up along the corridor, and was greeted by a very ugly _live_ house elf crouching on the floor folding some moth-eaten robes.

“Another Mudblood for Kreacher to deal with,” it muttered. “Kreacher will not!”

“I am _not_ a Mudblood,” Draco exclaimed hotly before he remembered his rule of not talking to the help.

It turned slowly and cocked its head, looking like a wizened potato. “It lies,” it hissed.

“I am Draco Malfoy,” Draco declared importantly. “Only son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, and I am nothing if not a Pureblood.”

It regarded Draco slowly, eyes widening comically, before it rushed over and began kissing Draco’s feet, continuing even as Draco kicked at it in disgust. “A Pureblood finally graces the House of Black again. Kreacher never thought this day would come!”

“Get away from me,” Draco said in disgust. “Go back to doing whatever it was you were doing.”

“Kreacher was taking care of master Regulus’s clothing, sir.”

“Well, go somewhere else,” Draco commanded. “Your face is tiring me.”

“Gladly, sir!” the house elf squeaked. “Ring for Kreacher if you need anything. Kreacher lives to serve!”

“Whatever,” Draco grumbled, and the elf was gone without even using the door, Disapparating with a pop.

“Bloody hate those things,” Draco said to himself. He was quite taken with the room now that the servant had left. It could use some cleaning, but it had a Slytherin feel to it, festooned in green and silver. He felt at home here, something that he’d been wanting for a while.

His cleaning spells weren’t too practiced, but he managed to clear enough of the grime away that he felt okay with sitting on the bed. It was old but functional, a little hard for Draco’s tastes. He leaned against the headboard and closed his eyes, only for a second. It had been a trying afternoon.

**

The next time Draco was aware of his surroundings, someone was knocking at the door. It was a second before he remembered where he was, and the room was disconcertingly dark as he sat up. The sudden influx of wandlight as the door opened was enough to make Draco’s head hurt, and he immediately shielded his eyes from it.

“Whossit?” he grumbled, still sleep-stupid, and Potter lowered his wand, looking sheepish.

“Sorry,” he said, very softly. “I just wanted to make sure you were still around.”

“Where did you think I’d gone?” Draco demanded, although a little groggily for his taste. “The merry streets of London? Merlin, Potter, you’re really thick, you know?”

Potter’s laugh is low and unexpected, seeing as Draco had just insulted him. “Sorry. I should’ve known you’d choose this room.”

“I like it,” Draco defended. “Reminds me of home. And I’m not spending another night sleeping on the floor when there’s a perfectly serviceable bed around.”

“You got your wish--it’s nearly dawn,” Potter said.

“And you only now thought to come looking?” Draco asked, nonplussed. “I could’ve been spilling half your secrets to the Dark Lord by now.”

“Maybe I trust you a little more than you trust me,” Potter responded, but there was no censure in his voice. “Budge over.”  
 “Find your own bed,” Draco said crankily, but he moved over nevertheless. 

“Don’t want to sleep alone,” Potter said simply. “Ron and Hermione are downstairs in the drawing room, but I couldn’t get comfortable.”

“Potter, you’re such a child,” Draco complained, but he couldn’t deny that the warm press of Potter’s body against his side was soothing.

“Stop being a royal arse for one second and go back to sleep,” Potter said lightly. “Or else I’ll order Kreacher to not make you breakfast.”

“Who on earth is Kreacher?” Draco asked but his eyes were already drooping. He thought he heard something about house elves, but he was already half-asleep at the point, gone enough to have dreams about wearing pillowcases and dusting mantles.

**

When Draco woke next, it was an indeterminable amount of time later and Potter, fully dressed and ready for the day, was just _staring_ at him. If he had been closer, he might have startled Draco; as it was, Draco just rolled over and threw a hand over his eyes. 

“Potter, you _pervert_ ,” he accused. 

Potter’s answering laugh was short and sweet, sounding too pleasant for Draco’s sleep-muddled head. “I can’t help that you look like a pretty princess when you’re asleep,” he teased. “If it wasn’t for all of the snoring...”

“I do not snore,” Draco said, affronted. “Malfoys don’t _snore_. Don’t you have something better to do this morning than bother me? Like saving the world from Dark Lords? This ringing a bell?”

Potter shrugs one shoulder, looking for all the world undisturbed by his current to-do list even though Draco could detect the line of tension apparent in his muscles. “It’s still early,” he said. “Plenty of time for that after breakfast.” Looking closer, Draco could see the dark circles under Potter’s eyes, the way his mouth was tight.

“Cor, you look like shite,” Draco pointed out. “Maybe instead of staring you should get some more sleep. Or does your grand plan center around collapsing of exhaustion?”

Potter just shrugged again, which wasn’t an answer, but somehow Draco knew there was something he was out of the loop on. He didn’t push.

“You know, you’re kind of an arse, Draco,” Potter commented lightly, but before Draco could retort about Potter’s lack on ingenuity in his insults, Potter had rolled over and kissed him instead. Draco made a surprised noise that got lost and then he was pushed into the bed, Potter’s weight half on top of him. Potter didn’t seem to care that Draco had sleep-sour breath, just kept kissing him, the desperate press of his mouth enough to make Draco shiver.

When Potter slid a hand into Draco’s pants, Draco couldn’t help but jump. The last time they’d done this, they’d been so piss-drunk on firewhisky that Draco hardly remembered it; now it was like all of his senses had been heightened to a fever-pitch. When Potter closed a calloused hand around Draco’s morning erection, the resultant groan was almost enough of an embarrassment for Draco to want to call it off.

Almost, but not quite.

Potter started a quick rhythm, or as quick as he could with his hand at such an awkward angle, but still, Potter’s hand on Draco’s dick was enough to make him practically shake with it. Abstractly, he knew that Potter was rutting down against his leg, so quintessentially teenage that in another situation, it would almost be comical.

It didn’t take long. It was almost embarrassing how little it took for Draco to shoot off in his trousers, like he hadn’t done this before. Potter didn’t last much longer, bucking awkwardly, using Draco’s body for friction, but still, Draco should have had the wherewithal and stamina to last longer, at least.

Potter kept kissing him even after he had finished, slow presses of his mouth, deep and careful, and Draco couldn’t help but yield to it even though he was beginning to feel gross. By the time Potter finally rolled off, sighing, Draco’s lips were swollen and the buzz of his orgasm had succeeded in making his limbs heavy and useless. Potter was at least enough of a gentlemen to cast a gentle _Scourgify_ , the most useful spell a horny teenage boy learned, and settled back down.

“You sure know how to start the morning off,” Draco murmured. It was a bit...nice for Draco, but he couldn’t help it; he was feeling too good to be ornery. 

Potter just smiled, pleased with himself, and scooted closer to Draco, helping to ward off the chill in the air. It was quiet for a while, the house creaking around them, before Potter spoke again. “It’s funny that you chose this room,” he mused, almost to himself, and Draco raised an eyebrow.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Potter?” he asked.

“Nothing bad,” Potter defended instantly. “Just, Sirius told me about his brother, how he decided he didn’t want to be a Death Eater anymore so he defected.”

“And got killed for his troubles,” Draco pointed out. 

“Yeah, well, he shouldn’t have joined in the first place,” Potter said. “In any case, it’s just funny to me. Here you are, a Slytherin who everyone would have expected to join Voldemort, with me instead.”

“Yes, well, please let’s try to keep me alive,” Draco said. “And don’t expect me to do anything heroic against the Dark Lord like Black did. I’m staying out of this one, Potter; I’m not suicidal.”

That got Potter’s attention, and he rolled over so he could fully look Draco in the face. “Something heroic? I’ve never heard that.”

“I don’t know what it was,” Draco clarified. “But my mum used to talk about him. He laughed when he was killed, I guess. She always did say, _Regulus Arcturus Black...what an imbecile_.”

“Regulus _Arcturus_ Black?” Potter queried in a choked tone.

“Yes, I don’t know why she always said his full name,” Draco said. “He was her cousin, after all. Maybe it made her feel like she was scolding him beyond the grave or some such thing.”

“Arcturus,” Potter said, as though he hadn’t heard what Draco had said. “ _Regulus Arcturus Black_.”

“That’s what I said,” Draco snapped. “Have you snapped with lack of sleep?”

Potter did something unexpected then, kissing Draco with on a comical smack before darting out of bed. “You just helped me out more than you think,” he said. “I’ve got to go talk to Kreacher.”

“Potter, what are you even talking about?” Draco asked, but Potter was out the door before Draco got his answer.

**

Barely twenty minutes later, Potter charged back into the room, surprising Draco. “I need you to get some information from Kreacher.” At Draco’s blank look, Potter ran an exasperated hand through his hair and pressed on. “The house elf. I told you last night. Anyways, he hates me, and I really need to know what he knows about Sirius’s brother.”

“You’re seriously not asking me to go have a conversation with a _house elf_ , are you?” Draco asked dryly.

“It’s important,” Potter said. “Really important. I need you to ask if Regulus ever gave him a gold locket. I need to find out what happened to it.”

“Jewelry, Potter? Honestly.” Draco rolled his eyes but dutifully followed Potter into the hall anyway. “And here I thought you had better things to worry about.”

“Don’t ask for details when you don’t want any,” Potter said darkly. “Kreacher’s just as intolerant to any not pureblooded as you are, so you should get on fine.”

By the time they got to the kitchen, the elf was throwing a full-blown temper tantrum on the floor. Granger was trying to placate it as Weasley looked on distastefully. “Hermione made him mad,” Weasley said accusatorially.

“I did not, Ronald,” Granger said shrilly. “I only suggested that he sit down. I thought he was to fall over.”

“Kreacher does not take orders from a Mudblood,” the elf wailed. “He does _not_.” 

Draco sniggered, stopping only when Potter shot him a harsh glare. He stood off to the side, a little out-of-place, but then Potter practically pushed him forward and Kreacher refocused his attention on Draco.

“Master Malfoy,” it croaked. “Such a pleasant sight apart from these Mudbloods and traitors.”

“Oh, I know,” Draco said conversationally, which made Potter scowl even harder. “They can be hard to deal with, can’t they?”

“Oh, most exceptionally so, Master Malfoy,” Kreacher said simperingly. Behind him, Potter made a little shooing movement with his hands, so Draco took the cue to just get on with it.

“Elf, I need to know something. It’s about a locket that my cousin Regulus had. It’s a family heirloom, you see. My mum mentioned it a while back, and I just realized you might know where it is.” Without much information, it was all Draco could go on to lie, but Kreacher seemed to get the gist and immediately prostrated himself against Draco’s robes. Draco tried to kick him off, which caused Granger to squawk in protest, but for a little, old thing he had a surprisingly strong grip.

“Kreacher is most aggrieved, sir,” it wailed. “Kreacher did have that locket, even after nasty Sirius tried to throw it away. But it was stolen, sir.”

“By whom?” Potter broke in. “Kreacher, who stole it?”

Kreacher just looked at Draco with big, wet eyes. “Mundungus Fletcher took it from me,” he said. “Kreacher tried to stop him, but he’s a thief, Mundungus Fletcher is.”

“I need to know how you got it,” Potter said and when Kreacher resisted, Draco butted in with another roll of his eyes.

“Yes, elf, do tell where it came from. I’ve always been curious.”

The elf immediately launched into a story that was disturbing in more ways than one. Draco slipped away halfway through; he was uncomfortable with the situation and what he was unwittingly learning, and by the time Potter popped up again, it was two hours later.

“You don’t know how much that helped,” Potter said breathlessly. “As soon as Kreacher finds Mundungus, I’ll actually be able to have a plan and more than just shots in the dark.”

“Please, spare me the details,” Draco murmured.

Potter waved a hand flippantly and continued, “I don’t want you to know as much as you don’t want to listen. In any case, I finally feel like I’m getting somewhere.”

“Thank Merlin,” Draco said. “Or else we’d all be in a lot more trouble than we suspected we would be.”

“Oh, shut it, you git,” Potter laughed. “Here, let’s find something to do before Kreacher comes back with news. It’ll keep my mind off things.”

And that was how Draco Malfoy found himself playing Gobstones in the parlor of his great-aunt Black with none other than Harry bleeding Potter. Funny how things do change.

**

For lack of a better term, life with Potter in his little hideaway was _boring_. Draco hadn’t expected it to be as such, not with the little dramatics that seemed to follow Potter like lost puppies, but he spent more time than not sequestered alone, reading through the books in the motheaten library or practicing his spellwork on unassuming pieces of furniture. Potter, Granger, and Weasley were busy with whatever their new plan was, and apart from an unceremonious visit from the werewolf Lupin that ended badly, there was nothing to really break the monotony.

Too add insult to injury, Potter and his deranged godfather had stripped the house of anything remotely interesting, leaving only the most random assortment of things behind. This left Draco without even exploring to break up his day, and as such, he spent quite a lot of time doing nothing at all, listening to the wireless or reading some book he found in a cranny.

When he wasn’t spending his time plotting with Granger and the Weasel, Potter tended to hang around Draco though, finding him in whichever room Draco’d decided to explore for the day, always ready with some inane topic of conversation, or when in a bad mood, a surly expression and not much else.

Draco didn’t know what he was expecting, but when Potter sat down one day and opened with, “So, Hermione, Ron, and I are going to sneak into the Ministry of Magic tomorrow,” Draco nearly fell off his chair in surprise.

“Because the last time went so swimmingly,” he commented.

“It’s--important,” Potter said stiltedly. “We have a plan. I need to find something.”

“Your funeral,” Draco said, surprisingly snappish. “I mean, I certainly wouldn’t walk into that manticore’s den if I was the number one most wanted wizard in England. But no, Harry Potter isn’t afraid of silly things like that.”

“I’m coming back,” Potter said softly. “You don’t have to worry.”

“ _Worried_?” Draco scoffed. “I’m not worried about _you_. I’m concerned about who you’re going to lead back to me though.”

“It’s going to work,” Potter insisted. Draco didn’t believe him.

The next morning, Draco made an effort to not be around when Potter left, hiding in some side room, picking at a breakfast he didn’t want to eat. When the house settled around him, deathly quiet, and Draco was certain he was alone, he abandoned the still-full plate and took up residence in the front hall, peering out the curtain at the street.

As always, a Death Eater stood in the square, keeping casual watch. Draco didn’t recognize him, but his heart beat a little faster all the same; he couldn’t help but feel that _he_ was being watched in turn, even after all those lectures from Granger on the various protection wards he was living under.

He spent a good portion of the morning poised to dash back into the house if someone were to appear on the front step, loathe to admit he was watching out for Potter’s return, but when it finally did happen, he was so startled, he fell over backwards. There were only flashes of movement--a dark sleeve, Weasel’s red hair, someone’s wand, before the _crack_ of Apparition sounded again, and there remained only one person outside, furious as he got to his feet.

Later Draco was unsure as to how he even managed to come up with a plan, thoughts as muddled as they were as he practically flew into the inner confines of the house. In any case, the first word out of his mouth wasn’t an epithet but instead the damnable house elf’s name, bellowed as loud as Draco could manage with his heart in his throat. Just a second later, not long enough for Draco to despair that the creature was out somewhere else, Kreacher appeared directly in Draco’s trajectory, causing Draco to fall head first over him. Somewhere close a door opened.

“Kreacher is sorry, Master Draco,” it croaked at once. “Kreacher was not expecting Master Draco to be running!”

“Take me to Potter,” Draco gasped, his arm throbbing from where it had hit the floor. “Now. Hurry!”

Kreacher hesitated for only a second, concentrating, before it settled an over-large hand on Draco’s arm and grasped tight. The Apparition seemed to take three times as long, squeezing Draco from all sides tight enough to make him feel ill before the two of them landed hard on the ground. 

Potter’s voice was the first thing to register to Draco apart from the dirt he was kneeling in and the tree he and the elf had landed behind. “Hermione,” Potter was saying, “I _need_ to go back. We can’t just leave him!” He was bleeding, a scratch high on his cheekbone, but he was struggling away from Granger, who had a firm grip on the back of his shirt.

“It’s too dangerous,” Granger said shrilly. “There could be a million Death Eaters swarming Grimmauld Place right now.”

“So we leave him alone to that?” Potter demanded. He sounded very desperate, but it didn’t soothe Draco’s temper. The terror had left him, festering into a very real annoyance, and he pulled himself up and stepped out from behind the tree.

“So you have a piss-poor plan,” he snarled, “and I’m the one who ends up nearly dead because of it? Bad form, Granger. Don’t think I’m going to forget it.”

Granger, who had screamed as soon as Draco emerged, avoided hitting him with a curse only by her awful aim. Potter’s face immediately broke out into relief, but that was hardly a balm on Draco’s anger.

“How on earth did you find us?” Potter breathed. He held his wand out warily, as if he expected Draco to charge any moment. 

“And so quickly?” Granger interjected. “We’ve only just gotten here ourselves.” She cast a worried glance at Weasley, who was bleeding onto the grass.

“Master Potter is not very good at hiding,” Kreacher said, coming out from his hiding place in a humped sort of gait. “Kreacher was able to find him without much difficulty.”

“This is Draco, right?” Potter asked. “The real one? The one that’s been with me all this time? You haven’t brought a Death Eater in disguise, have you? Tell me the truth, Kreacher!”

“Potter, you daft git,” Draco snapped.

“Master Malfoy is Master Malfoy,” Kreacher said. “There has been no magic cast on him.”

“Thank goodness,” Granger sighed, immediately turning to care for Weasley, who had turned an alarming shade of puce.

“If you ever-- _ever_ leave me alone again to deal with Death Eaters that are after _you_ and make me rely on a house elf to escape, I will find you and disembowel you with your own wand,” Draco threatened. 

“That’s impractical,” Potter said, his mouth twitching a little. “It would take far too long.”

“Don’t talk to me for at least three days,” Draco said, pointing at him. Before Potter could answer, he stalked away, at least thirty yards, and leaned against a tree until Granger finished setting up the awful tent she had stored in her bag.

**

It turned out that living on the lam with Potter was, if possible, even worse than being shut inside Grimmauld Place. For one thing, the three idiots kept passing around a necklace to wear, getting progressively more angry about it. For another, there was no decent food to be had, nor any entertainment to find besides a rag-tag collection of Granger’s textbooks, which were worse than nothing. Draco had to spend a lot of time in the dreary weather outside the tent to stay away from Potter’s wartime conversations. In fact, Draco did a lot of evading--if it wasn’t Potter, Granger, and Weasel having a grumpy conversation about Dark Lord knows what, it was them stumbling upon refugees in the forest, having little revelations as they ran from Dementors and Death-Eaters-in-Training.

It was after an escapade involving some sort of goblin gang that introduced the real drama--at least, drama more entertaining than Kreacher constantly underfoot. Draco was sequestered in the back of the tent, lying on the bed for lack of anything more productive to do, when Weasel decided to throw an almighty fit. He’d already been complaining fit to burst about the lack of good food, the lack of a plan, the lack of anything necessary for a comfortable existence, but something Potter had murmured seemed to set him off the edge.

“Why don’t you just tell the truth, Harry?” Weasley snarled, loud enough for Draco to venture to the middle area of the tent to see what was going on. “You don’t know what you’re doing anymore. We don’t have any sort of plan.”

“I’ve been up front with you _this whole time_ ,” Potter returned, red in the face as Draco settled against the wall for the show. “Why are you even still here?”

“Please take the locket off,” Granger pleaded. “ _Please_ , Ron.” Weasley ignored her, bracing his hands on the table that they were arguing over.

“I don’t know why I’m sticking around. I should go home, shouldn’t I? It’s not like you _need_ me here. It’s not like you _care_ what happens to my family.”

“Ron, what are you even talking about?” Granger gasped.

“It could be worse,” Weasely says in an obvious mimic. “That’s what he said about my sister. He doesn’t give a crap about how much danger they’re in or what’s happening. No--he’s faced worse so anything else pales in comparison.”

“Touche, Weasley,” Draco murmured, but he was largely ignored.

“That’s not what I meant, Ron!” Potter exclaimed.

“And you weren’t very concerned when the group out there talked about another injured Weasley,” he continued sharply. 

“Ron, think about it,” Granger cried. “Bill’s gone, and George...well. And _you_. You’re supposedly on your death bed. I don’t think they meant anything by it.”

“Well, if _you’re_ so sure, it must be true,” Weasley countered. “And it’s not like it’s a concern for you--your parents are out of the way.”

“I had to _Obliviate_ them,” Granger yelled, close to tears. “They don’t even know who I am.”

“And mine could be dead in a week,” Weasley shouted.

“Then _go_ ,” Potter said. “Leave. Go back to Mummy. I’m sure she’ll coddle you and feed you and listen to you whinge.”

“Maybe I will!” Weasley said, sweeping a cup off the table in a dramatic gesture. It shattered against the floor, spreading tea in a large spray. Even Draco could see his resolve--it resonated in the stiff way he was holding himself, with how his eyes kept darting towards the door.

“If you’re leaving,” Potter said quietly, “give me the locket.”

“Take it,” said Weasley. “I won’t be back.”

“Ron, _no_ ,” Granger whimpered.

“You coming or going?” he asked her.

“Ron--I can’t _go_ ,” she responded incredulously. “I promised Harry I’d see this through to the end.”

“Of course,” Weasley said bitterly. “Of course you’d choose him and stay. Him and his bloody pet Slytherin.”

“I have no reservations about hexing you,” Draco said cheerfully. Again, no one even looked his way, and Weasley swept away, towards the door.

“Ron--no,” Granger choked, but she was impeded by the puddle of tea and shards of glass. By the time she got to the opening of the tent, Weasley had already disappeared, and if the crack of Apparition was anything to go by, he wasn’t coming back.

Sure enough, when Granger came back inside, she was crying. Draco felt largely uncomfortable, sunk further into the shadows as she collapsed into a chair with her hand over her face. He stayed like that for perhaps five minutes, watching Potter comfort her. As soon as she waved him away, Potter was skulking over to Draco’s lookout, however, and without saying a word, he grabbed Draco’s hand and practically manhandled him outside.

“Potter--what on earth,” Draco spluttered, getting liberally soaked by the rain in the first couple of seconds outside.

“I don’t want to think,” Potter said tersely. “Not about Ron, not about bloody You-Know-Who, not about anything.”

“What does that have to do with dragging me out in the rain?” Draco asked.

“Because I figure I’ll have the best time at not thinking if I’m concentrating on doing something I’ve never done before,” Potter said darkly before pushing Draco against a tree. The bark scraped roughly at Draco’s back, but he couldn’t say anything about it, too overcome with shock as Potter settled onto his knees in the mud. The intent was very clear, and Draco’s mouth went dry with anticipation.

“I should let Weasley make you angry more often,” he croaked.

“Shut up,” Potter said. “Or I’m not doing this.”

“Far be it from me to stop you,” Draco said glibly.

Potter’s hands were sure as they unzipped Draco’s trousers, his mouth set in a firm line. Draco couldn’t help but stare, his breath caught uncomfortably in his throat as Potter pushed his y-fronts down too, leaving Draco bare-assed against a tree. There was nothing to say that Granger wasn’t about to come out and investigate, but the way Potter confidently closed his hand around Draco’s half-hard dick and guided it to the seam of his lips was enough to chase any remainder of cognizant thought right out of Draco’s head.

It was obvious that Potter had never done anything like this before, tentative in a way that Draco wasn’t used to with him. He kept looking up, Draco’s cock as far in his mouth as he could manage, to make sure he was doing it right, but for all the good that did him. Draco had no wit now, couldn’t manage it, and even though Potter was definitely an amateur, Draco couldn’t help it: he was a seventeen year old, after all, and a blowjob is better than no blowjob.

Eventually, Draco couldn’t keep watching Potter watching him with those damn, debauched eyes and his hair plastered to his head, and instead closed his own eyes against the onslaught. He was very careful to keep his mind blank instead of entertaining thoughts about what exactly was happening: he wanted this to last.

Eventually, though, he fell over the edge through a combination of the needy noise that originated from the back of Potter’s throat to the sheer eroticism of the situation. Potter, Gryffindor that he was, didn’t even hesitate to swallow, his mouth working around Draco’s dick like he actually enjoyed the taste of it. He pulled away with one last swipe of his tongue, still looking up at Draco with an unreadable expression as Draco sagged against the tree.

“If I had know that’s all I needed to do to shut you up,” Potter said hoarsely. His lips were obscenely swollen, and Draco felt something twist in his stomach.

“I hope you’re not expecting me to do that,” Draco responded weakly. 

Potter just shrugged. His erection was pretty damn obvious, but he seemed to be ignoring it. “Of course not. You’d never be that brave.”

“It doesn’t take a hero to suck dick,” Draco said.

“But it takes a coward to be afraid of the unknown,” Potter said instantly. “In any case, I’m going to go back inside and take care of this.” He gestured to his crotch, almost lewdly, and Draco heard the challenge in his words. And he was damned if he was losing to Potter at something like this. He struggled to pull his pants back up, still a little shaken from his orgasm, and gestured at Potter.

“You are an awful person, and I’m not going to enjoy this,” he warned. Potter’s smirk was almost galling enough for Draco to call it off and go inside, but...truth be told, he was a little curious. He and Potter had been keeping on with the pattern they’d started back at Grimmauld Place when they could, cramped in the confined corners of the tent with only a _Silencio_ to protect their privacy, and this seemed like the natural progression. Lines were beginning to blur faster than Draco was comfortable with, but at this juncture, with Potter breathing hard against the tree and Draco gingerly getting to his knees, he couldn’t help what he wanted to do.

“You better appreciate this,” Draco warned.

**

Over the next couple of weeks as the weather cooled, Potter became more morose than he’d been, needier too. He snuck into Draco’s bed so many times that Draco ended up casting an _Engorgio_ on it so he didn’t wake up smothered, and the jokes about Potter being a child were endless enough that even Granger couldn’t help but get annoyed. 

One morning, Draco awoke to Potter staring at him, which was, unfortunately, a new habit. Draco hunkered further into the blankets to avoid the cold and gave Potter a Look.

“You have no social skills,” Draco pointed out. “Stop staring at me, you freak.”

It was a testament to how screwed up Draco had gotten, because the insult came out more fond than anything else, and judging by the slight upturn of Potter’s mouth, it wasn’t lost on him. But instead of responding in kind, Potter just sighed and grabbed Draco’s wrist, as though he was using it to anchor himself.

“Do you know anything about Godric’s Hollow?” Potter asked quietly.

It took a moment for the shock to die down, though it left behind a bed of snakes in Draco’s stomach, roiling unpleasantly. “I know that if you’re thinking of going there, you’re more suicidal than I thought,” Draco replied steadily.

“I have to--” Potter started, but Draco cut him off.

“You always say you _have_ to and then we all end up running for our lives,” Draco said harshly. “Give me one good reason!”

“I thought you didn’t want to be involved,” Potter continued. “Telling you would be getting you involved. I’ve hit a dead end, and I think Godric’s Hollow might have an answer.”

“You’re right--I don’t want to be involved!” Draco spat. “You go to Godric’s Hollow, and you’re as good as dead. The Dark Lord will have planted spies there, just like he did back in London. It’s about the most obvious place to go.”

“You better be careful, Draco, or I’ll begin to think you care about what happens to me,” Potter said.

“I don’t _care_ ,” Draco said hotly. “I don’t want to be left alone, is all. Being with you is an amnesty I can’t afford to give up.”

Potter just shrugged with one shoulder, looking anything but apologetic. “I’m going,” he said. “Today, with Hermione. I wanted you to come too, though. I’ve never been...”

“Inviting me on your suicide mission,” Draco said bitterly. “That’s perfect.”

“Come if you want. Or stay behind. It doesn’t matter,” Potter said, in a tone that implied the exact opposite. He cemented the situation by sliding out of bed a couple of seconds later, and the unfamiliar guilty feeling was what led Draco to be out in the snow in a godforsaken village known for nothing more than tragedy, trailing behind Granger and Potter disguised as a Muggle.

Oh, how the Malfoy line had fallen.

The first stop on their depressing little tour is, of course, the graveyard, stock full of snowed-in graves. He followed behind Potter a little closer than Granger, because it looked as though he needed it, brushing snow off of the gravestones as he went, trying to find the exact marker they were looking for. They dallied for a bit at the graves of Dumbledore’s relatives, something that interested Potter and Granger but left Draco with a sour taste in his mouth. 

“Harry, come look at this,” Granger said after a measure.

“Did you find them?” Potter asked, his voice sounding oddly hoarse.

“Not exactly,” Granger breathed, pointing a mittened finger at a very decrepit grave marker. “It’s the symbol from the book.” She gestured to it, a triangular mark with a circle in the middle.

“I know what that is,” Draco blurted, and Potter and Granger simultaneously turned around to stare at him. “I mean, I think I do. It looks very familiar.”

“You do?” Granger pressed. “What is it?”

“I don’t know now, but I know I’ve seen it before. It’ll come to me.”

“Of course,” Granger sighed. “A break in what we’re looking for, and you can’t remember.”

“I’m not part of your merry team here, Granger,” Draco snapped. “I didn’t sign up for any treasure hunt or riddle game. I’m here for protection.”

“I know, I know,” Granger said. “It would’ve been nice to know, finally. I’ve been searching forever.”

“If you’re done, I’m going to keep looking,” Potter said edgily. He started off deeper into the field, and after a second, Draco trailed along right behind: better that than being stuck with Granger. The night got eerily silent around them, devoid of the sounds of far-off villagers, and then Draco brushed some snow away and saw a very familiar name.

“It’s here,” he said, surprised to note that his voice wasn’t as strong as he’d have expected it to be. Potter’s shoulders stiffened, but he turned around, coming to look at what Draco uncovered. Draco read the engraving a couple of times without comprehending it, Potter pressing himself to Draco’s side.

“Isn’t that some sort of Death Eater idea?” Potter asked, almost panicked. “ _The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death_?”

“Please,” Draco murmured. “As though Death Eaters were so dramatic.”

“I don’t think it means that, Harry,” Granger said softly to the right of him. “It’s living beyond death. Life after.” Potter didn’t respond to that, just stared, tracing his parents’ name over and over with his finger. After a minute, Draco realized that Potter was crying, his face twisted, and instead of coming up with a quip or a cheap remark, Draco huddled closer to Potter and let Potter take his hand.

**

It was a depressing walk back into town, nothing besides paranoia as Granger kept looking over her shoulder. Potter had gotten it into his head that they had to visit Bathilda Bagshot, whoever that was, so instead of going away from the danger presented by following the road into the thickest part of the village, they headed in, winding down the road. Granger peered around so much, it was like a nervous tic.

“Let’s hurry up and get this done so we can get under the blasted cloak,” Draco said. He was beginning to get terribly nervous, seeing things in the shadows.

“Look,” Potter said, much too loud. He grabbed Draco’s arm and pulled him along the ice, Granger trailing very closely behind. It was pretty apparent as to what he was heading towards; the house was in ruins, overgrown with weeds and derelict in a way that spelled trauma. Part of it was blown out into rubble: obviously the sight where the Dark Lord accidentally almost killed himself over a baby. 

“Harry, do you really think going inside is a good idea?” Granger whispered as Potter grasped the gate as if to pull it open, but she quieted as soon as a sign popped out of the ground, prompted by Potter’s touch. As far as memorials go, it was quite damaged: scrawled over with graffiti written in Everlasting Ink. Granger was indignant at what she thought was disrespect, but Potter thought it was brilliant.

“Only you would be amazed by scribblings,” Draco murmured under his breath, but he was immediately shushed by the flap of Granger’s hand. 

The woman walking slowly down the way was stumped with age, dragging her feet through the snow in a sad sort of way, but Draco’s heart still caught in his throat at the sight of her. “Let’s go _now_ ,” he hissed, pulling at Potter’s sleeve, but it did him no good--Potter just stepped forward out of Draco’s grip. She stopped a few yards from them, gazing sightlessly up at the house, and the tingle of magic in the air made it clear that this was no ordinary Muggle.

“We should be under the cloak,” Draco said, mostly to himself. “Why the bloody hell aren’t we under that damn cloak?” The woman moved her head, staring right at him before moving onto Potter, beckoning with one cramped hand. When there was no answer, she made the gesture again, an air of importance in it, and Potter cleared his throat to speak.

“Are you Bathilda Bagshot?” he asked. The only answer he got was a slight head nod and another twitch of her hand. When Potter stepped forward again, she turned slowly and hobbled towards another house on the road, this one still intact but showing wear.

“Why are we following this bat?” demanded Malfoy in a strangled whisper. “You are entirely insane.”

“She has something to tell me,” Potter said back, equally lowly, but there was something about his tone that suggested he didn’t entirely believe what he was saying. Slowly, inexorably, they drew closer to the door until they were inside, and then further still they went, trailing into a musty drawing room. It smelled of neglect and mold, enough for Draco to want to get out as quickly as possible, but Potter was entranced, touching the curios on the dresser with light fingertips.

“This is beyond a bad idea,” Draco said. “Can we go before someone loses a limb.”

“It’s okay,” Potter reassured. “Look at her--she looks like she barely weighs eight stone soaking wet. Even you could overpower her.”

“Hardy har har,” replied Draco sarcastically. “I’m serious, Potter.”

Behind them, Bathilda made some sort of noise that drew Potter’s attention, and with a final, “It’s okay, honestly,” he was following her out of the room, motioning for Draco and Hermione to stay put.

“Do all of you Gryffindors have no sense of self preservation?” Draco asked.

“Harry knows what he’s doing,” said Granger in a shaky voice.

“I’ll believe it if we get out of here alive,” Draco muttered.

Suspicions as high as they were, it wasn’t much of a surprise when something clattered above, thumping hard enough to make the ceiling rain dust, but it made Draco’s stomach knot terribly in fear all the same. Granger was closest to the stairs, and she immediately proved Draco’s point, whipping around the corner to find the source of the noise, calling Potter’s name. The worst of it was, however, that Draco couldn’t stand to stay in the drawing room alone. Without even thinking, he was tearing after Granger, taking the steps at two at a time.

The first thing Draco was aware of was Granger bawling, “ _Confringo_ ” at the top of her lungs. The blasting hex ricocheted everywhere, inciting enough confusion to make Draco unsure of what was happening. The furniture was upturned, Potter was on the floor, and... _there was a giant snake in the middle of the room_.

“He’s coming!” Potter yelled, twisted in on himself in pain as he pushed himself away from the snake with small thrusts of his legs. The snake was between him and Granger, creating a roadblock that Draco acted upon without thought. The hex bounced easily enough off of the snake’s skin, but it was enough of a distraction to cause it to undulate and slither its body around to face Draco, rearing menacingly. Something inside his head made him look away before he could catch a glance of its face, and Granger had grabbed a hold of Potter. 

“Draco, come on!” she screamed, just as the snake snapped forward, intent on making Draco its next meal.

“Voldemort is coming,” Potter said again, his voice inarguably weaker.

With an agility he didn’t know he possessed, Draco rolled (or perhaps fell) just enough so that the snake’s strike missed him, catapulting the animal into the wall behind him. It gave Draco enough time to get across the room to Granger and Potter, but his mind was still running, turning over all of the curses he read about, anything that would get rid of the snake for good. He sensed something about it, something hugely dangerous, and the urge to kill it once and for all was overwhelming. 

Before Granger’s grasping hand could take hold, Draco was wheeling around, once again facing the snake as it prepped for another attack. This time, Draco hurled a curse at it, one he’d only read about in forbidden books, the kind that even his mother would hide from him in the Manor. He had no reason to believe it would work, only intent, and that was what fueled the incantation.

His aim was dead on, and fire spurted from his wand tip with enough force to propel him backwards right onto Granger’s hand. He had just a moment, a flash of watching the fire take the form of a phoenix, ripping through the snake’s innards like it was paper before Granger was Apparating the three of them out of the room.

**

Potter was unconscious the minute they reached their destination, some in-the-middle-of-nowhere field. Granger gave Draco the task of summoning Kreacher and setting up the tent as she dealt with Potter’s savaged arm. For once, Draco didn’t complain, pulling her bag from her proffered hand and going about his business, sneaking looks at Potter’s pallid face every thirty seconds or so.

Kreacher was sent for food and water, and once the tent was up, Granger used a Hover charm to get Potter into a bed. He was in a bad form, sweating, the bandage already pink with blood, moaning about something. Granger kept murmuring to him, but it did no good; Potter remained dead to the world. 

“I’ll take first watch,” Draco choked out. To be honest, Draco hadn’t ever been asked to be a lookout in the months they’d been on the lam, but another second inside that tent was liable to make him sick. He swept outside, taking several deep breaths in succession as the cool crispness of the air calmed him down a little. It was freezing but he used a spell to clear an area to sit and then conjured up a small fire to float in front of him.

Try as he might, however, Draco couldn’t get his heart to stop racing. His hands were shaking from something other than the cold, and now that the adrenaline rush was leaving him, he felt as though someone had dropped a rock on his head. Whenever he blinked, he saw Potter behind his eyelids, lying on the floor with a bloody great snake readying itself for another bite, screaming about the Dark Lord.

He was so involved in his thoughts that he didn’t hear when Granger swept out of the tent, nearly falling over when she put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s okay, I think,” she said tremulously. “For now.”

“I told you bloody idiots it was a bad idea,” responded Draco tonelessly.

“Yes, well,” she hedged. “We thought it was our only option.”

“And now he might die,” Draco said. “What’s the chance that that snake wasn’t venomous?”

“Don’t say that,” snapped Granger. “He’s fine.”

“Keep deluding yourself, Granger. You’re quite good at it.”

The silence was pointed, drawing out as Granger played with a stick in the snow for a couple of minutes, drawing runes that made no sense together. When she talked again, it was all in a great rush, as though she’d been holding it in. “Fiendfyre is dark magic. Why did you use it?”

“I wasn’t aware,” replied Draco sarcastically.

“You’ve could’ve killed us.”

“No--your ill-timed Blasting Hex could’ve killed us,” Draco countered. “Don’t think I didn’t see what you did to Potter’s wand. In any case, you were behind me and I was shooting the fire at the snake. It wasn’t done without thought.”

“Where did you learn how to do it?” she asked shrilly. “Were you practicing in secret?”

“Granger, you’re an idiot sometimes,” Draco sighed. “Some dark magic is easy to do if you have the will. I think even Crabbe could’ve pulled it off if he was mad enough. I wanted the snake dead. It was the first thing I could think of. I stole one of my father’s books when I was a child and had nightmares about Fiendfyre for weeks. That kind of thing sticks with you.”

Granger looked at him, stared as though she was sussing out any dishonesty. Draco just met her gaze head-on, letting his intent fall through, and by the slight softening of her face, it seemed as though she believed him. “There’s no way you didn’t kill that snake,” she said after a pause. “I think it was Nagini--You-Know-Who’s snake. We needed it dead.”

“So what are you complaining for?” Draco asked bitterly.

“I’ve never seen you so angry,” she admitted. “And to use a spell like that...it frightened me.”

“Well, I’m not going to turn it on your bushy head,” Draco said. “Yet. And if you’re staying out here, I’m going back inside. I’m exhausted.”

She just waved her hand a little, motioning him away, and he stiffly got up to enter the tent. He must’ve been sitting out longer than he realized. Kreacher was nowhere to be seen once he got inside, but Potter was lying still as a corpse, making Draco’s breath stick painfully in his chest. He didn’t want to, but some sort of external force pulled him close until he was resting his arm on the slow rising on Potter’s chest.

He stayed like that until his legs cramped, and even then he only grabbed a stool to sit down on. He needed the reassurance that Potter was still alive, and no matter how hard he scolded himself, told himself to get into the other bed, the one he and Potter shared, he didn’t move. Eventually, Granger came in, stopping for a millisecond when she saw him, but she didn’t say anything either, choosing to sit at the table and pick at some food.

Together, they spent the night in some kind of trance, watching Potter, and when the dawn had broken, weak, watery light visible through the front flap of the tent, Potter began to stir. Granger leapt up at the first weary exhalation, advancing on the bed, but Draco did the opposite. His legs were impossibly stiff, but he still managed to get himself outside into the snow. He didn’t want to hear Potter’s questions about what happened, nor did he want to sit through the explanation Granger provided.

Now that it was fairly certain that Potter wasn’t going to expire, Draco felt himself get hugely angry. It roiled in his stomach, growing exponentially in strength until he could scream with it. Instead, he took his wand and started blasting branches.

“What are you doing?” Potter asked, somehow behind Draco without making a noise. He was favoring his right side and obviously not ready to be on his feet, and that just made Draco madder.

“Keeping myself alive through a series of good judgments and self-awareness,” Draco said. “You should try it sometimes.”

Potter’s sigh was so deep that Draco nearly wheeled around to punch him for it. “I didn’t know that You-Know-Who had set a trap.”

“How could you not?” Draco demanded hotly. “You only wander into the first place he ever tried to kill you. And then you followed a barmy, old woman into her bedroom _alone_. And you’re _surprised_ you were nearly eaten by a great bloody snake?”

“It’s not that easy,” Potter answered defensively. “I can’t just hide away in the woods forever. I need to have some kind of plan. We were at a dead end--Godric’s Hollow made _sense_ \--”

“And what did you find there?” Draco interrupted. “An epiphany? Some great bleeding weapon to kill the Dark Lord with? No. You broke your wand and you almost died. Great savior you turned out to be.”

“I’m trying my best here,” Potter said tightly. “At least I’m looking for a way to fight instead of hiding behind someone else.”

“Keeping myself alive is not something you can mock me for,” Draco said. “I’ve given a lot to your damn cause, and I’m not even sure I believe in it.”

“Well maybe you should go then,” Potter snapped. “Find someone else to protect you. I’m getting bloody sick of your attitude.”

“Perhaps I shall. It’s not like you have the best track record of keeping people around right now, is it? I lasted longer than your pretty little ginger friends.”

“You’re an arsehole,” Potter said.

“Yes, well, you bring out the best in me,” Draco said flatly. “Now get back in the damn bed before you collapse and really die this time. I’m not going to Azkaban because some hyped-up Order member thinks I poisoned you.”

“It all comes back to you, doesn’t it, Malfoy?” Potter said under his breath. Draco was too angry to even come up with something to say as a last quip, and soon after he heard the slow gait of Potter returning to the tent.

**

Even though it was freezing, Draco spent the rest of the day skirting around outside, lighting a fire whenever it got too cold. It was boring, sure, but better than being inside. Granger tried to come out to talk to him once or twice, but Draco cut her off at the pass both times. He had no interest in hearing what she had to say, nor did he care what she told Potter. He gave himself some time after the lights dimmed to slip back inside the tent; for some reason, they were foregoing a guard tonight unless they thought Draco would do it. He was just petty enough not to, though, and as he took the empty, magically-enlarged bed he and Potter usually shared, he thought a little bit about how ironic it would be if they were slaughtered in their sleep.

Sometime later, something startled Draco awake, and it was only Potter’s hushed admonitions that stopped Draco from ramming his wand up Potter’s nose. “What are you doing here?” Draco demanded, sleep rough, as soon as Potter had muttered a _Silencio_.

“Can we talk without you being a major prat?” Potter asked.

“Oh Merlin, Potter, it’s the middle of the night,” Draco moaned. “Go away.”

“It’s easier to ambush you like this,” Potter said. 

“You can talk,” Draco replied. “I’m going back to sleep.”

Potter was silent for a little while before continuing. “Hermione said you killed Nagini. You don’t know how much that helps.”

“I didn’t want to become snake food,” Draco muttered into his pillow. “Anyone would’ve done it. And what on earth is a Nagini?”

“And she said you were really worried,” Potter said, as though he was embarrassed by it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that was going to happen--the whole ambush bit.”

“What you don’t know could fill several thousand feet of parchment,” Draco yawned. “And I was just worried that you’d gone ahead and offed yourself before finishing your purpose of killing the Dark Lord.”   
“Don’t do that,” Potter said. “Don’t act like you don’t care.”

“I don’t,” Draco said, though the words twisted something in his chest. “You and I--this is just something to pass the time.”

Potter’s face was an odd mixture of hurt and amusement. “I don’t believe you,” he said, and before Draco could voice an assurance, Potter was kissing him, just the way he knew drove Draco mad, with a hint of teeth and the press of his tongue. As quickly as he’d descended, he pulled away again, and Draco couldn’t help the small whimper that escaped his throat at the lack of contact.

“What was that?” Potter asked, a hint of humor. “I thought I heard someone make a girly noise.”

“Shut it, arsehole,” Draco muttered, but he wanted another kiss, and Malfoys get what they want. Potter surrendered easily, tangling his hand in Draco’s hair while using the other one to draw Draco closer. They spent a good while like that, kissing slow and easy, and Draco unwillingly felt his anger ebb and ease away, like a tide finally going back out. He felt safe like this, warm and protected, and the urge to hide himself away in this bed, tether Potter to him, was almost overwhelming.

Potter broke away after an indeterminable amount of time, staying close enough that they were breathing in each other’s air. “I’m sorry,” Potter murmured, the epitome of sincere.

“It won’t stop you from doing it again,” Draco said, equally soft.

“Would you still be here with me if I gave up so easily?” Potter countered, and Draco didn’t really have an answer for that. He honestly didn’t _know_ where he’d be if Potter wasn’t so stubbornly set in his beliefs and ways of action. It was, honestly, a little bit frightening.

“You’d be dead if you gave up easily, so it’s a moot point,” Draco muttered. Potter’s hand had somehow wormed itself up under Draco’s jumper, surprisingly warm as it incited Draco to shiver against it, goosebumps drawing up on his arms.

“Such faith you have in me,” Potter said, mouthing the words against Draco’s neck as he placed a kiss at the base of Draco’s jaw, his stubble scraping over the sensitive flesh there. Draco’s breath left him in a drawn-out shudder, which Potter took as acquiescence because he kissed Draco full on the mouth again, slow, wet kisses that Draco arched into. By the time Potter broke away to rest his head on Draco’s shoulder, Draco’s lips were tender and his dick was hard in his trousers. 

Potter was only in his sleep pants, but Draco was overheated, still in the clothes he’d been wearing outside. In a move that was perhaps ungraceful, Draco struggled to a sitting position and shucked his jumper and undershirt. Potter was looking up at him appreciatively, and that spurred Draco to move quickly, straddling Potter, kneeling on his haunches to align himself in the best way.

Potter raised an eyebrow, and Draco answered with a smirk, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to the jut of Potter’s collarbone before sucking a love bite there. It was an awkward angle, but the way Potter’s hands fluttered to Draco’s waist was enough of an encouragement...for Draco to stop altogether. It was an unsportsmanlike move, but he countered by leaning forward, aligning his erection with Potter’s and starting a slow, steady grind. The friction was marvelous, and it felt like forever since Draco had last felt something like this, even if it had been only a week since his last encounter with Potter.

In any case, Potter’s resultant moan was rewarding in its own way, and Draco had to harness his self control to keep himself from rutting down. He kept it up like that until he was close, until he could tell Potter was close too...and then Potter grabbed his wrist.

“Stop,” Potter panted. “Wait a second.”

It took a herculean effort for Draco to stop moving, and even then he couldn’t help but press the heel of his hand into the meat of his erection. “You did not just say that,” he groaned. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“More,” Potter said, hardly an elaboration. “I want more than this.”

It wasn’t meant to be a pressured, statement, but Draco could feel the meaning behind it like a stab to the gut. He instantly knew that Potter wasn’t just talking about blowjobs, an art they’d familiarized themselves with over the past month or so. When he said more, he _meant_ more, as in all-the-way, and Draco saw the hidden suggestion behind that too. 

“You gonna apologize to me through full out sex?” Draco drawled. “You think that’s gonna work?”

“You’re to easy for it not to,” Potter said breathlessly.

“Now who’s underestimating whom?” Draco queried. It was almost like any other banter they’d had between them were it not for the fact that Draco’s erection was straining at the implication of sex. He suddenly wanted it so bad he could taste it, but at the same time, he wanted it on _his_ terms. He didn’t need for Potter to make another sacrifice: he needed to be able to dictate how things went down. 

“Are you saying you don’t want to?” Potter asked with a cocked eyebrow.

“Don’t twist my words,” Draco warned. “But we’re doing this my way. As in you’re not giving up your arse for me because you think it’ll mollify me. It’ll be the other way around, or not at all tonight.”

Potter’s look of astonishment would’ve been amusing had Draco not been so dead-set on his decision. He _was_ nervous--there was no way he couldn’t be--but he wanted it at the same time.

“You’re full of surprises sometimes,” Potter said at long last, but it wasn’t a denial.

“I take that as a yes,” Draco said dryly. “So get on with it. I sincerely hope you know how this goes. Or else I’m leaving right now.”

Potter’s blush was oddly endearing, and as soon as Draco shifted his weight to allow Potter to get up, he saw the Potter, through some slight of hand, had hidden a small bottle of Sleekeasy’s more nefarious product. In the small glint of light, Draco could see how the figures on the bottle lewdly moved, and if anything, it made him more nervous, though he was loathe to show it. Without hesitation, he undid his trousers and shucked them off, unabashedly looking as Potter did the same. They’d been fully naked together, once or twice, but this was the first time it felt this electric, with the promise of what they were about to do in the air.

Draco let Potter push him into a lying position, though he felt stupid for doing so, like some virginal damsel waiting for a deflowering. Potter took his sweet time mapping Draco’s body with his fingers, an occasional press of his lips, nip of teeth, before he reached the juncture of Draco’s groin, at which point he relocated his Sleekeasy’s bottle. He fumbled it so much at first that Draco wanted to steal if from him, but he held off as Potter finally got the lid off, spilling a general amount of it over his hand.

There was absolutely no finesse when they got down to it, Potter hesitantly, awkwardly opening Draco up with first one finger, then one more when Draco became scared that he’d go for it without more preparation. It was an intrusion, a painful one once Potter started stretching him further, and Draco almost called the whole thing off a total of five separate times. If sex was like this, Draco surmised, he’d be perfectly content reverting back to mutual wank sessions and blowjobs.

But there was no way Draco was going to concede then, not after his grand declaration, so when Potter finally pulled away, a grimace on his face as he wiped his hand clean on the duvet, Draco just canted an eyebrow in challenge. It took a minute for Potter to steady himself, to actually push in, and that _was_ torture, a slow, inexorable slide that made Draco involuntarily cry out in pain. Potter was considerate enough to stop moving, bracing himself on trembling arms, hovering above Draco; they stayed like that for several moments until Draco allowed himself to make a barely perceptible nod that Potter took as permission to keep going.

It took several minutes for the ache to slide into something different, Potter moving above him, Draco anchoring himself by gripping each of Potter’s forearms, but it became something _more_ almost without warning. Something was sparking deep inside Draco, something that felt real and bizarre, something that had his dick perking up after the shock of penetration. 

When Draco began to pull at his cock, coaxing himself towards orgasm, it was without thought. Being with Potter, having Potter inside of him, was some sort of drug, yanking his brain away to deal only with the baser senses. Potter felt _good_ now, and it was better when Draco was actively participating in his own pleasure, two counterpoints of sensation building in his groin until he was panting with it, little huffs and groans that eddied around them like water, Potter answering every exhalation.

Draco’s orgasm came as a surprise, rushing out of him, making his head fuzzy and his arms weak, and Potter didn’t last long after that; jerked in a self-satisfied way as he came, stayed still as the afterglow faded. When he pulled out--yeah, that hurt again--but Draco was too complacent to say anything, to make a quip or find some comment to make Potter feel like shite. Instead, in a very un-Draco move, he moved over, pillowed himself into Potter’s side without saying anything, and fell asleep like that, content and sore.

**

The following couple of weeks passed in some sort of intermittent haze; so vastly different from what Draco had become accustomed to on their little journey through the English countryside that it was hard to acclimate to at first. Granger and Potter were less inclined to sit in their little huddles, discussing things that Draco had no interest in. Instead, Granger burrowed her head in one of the plethora of books she had clunking around in that endless bag of hers, and Potter would head out with Draco to talk, or to play-duel in the yard they were occupying, or to just sit--it depended on the mood.

Things had irreparably changed between them, and that was unsettling enough. Draco found it harder to bring up excuses to treat Potter with disdain and derision, Potter kept looking at him sidelong in a way that made Draco’s stomach twist pleasantly, and the number of awkward silences between them had doubled. It was the aftermath of full-on sex that no one had warned Draco about.

In any case, it turned out that even with his wand broken in three pieces, Potter was still a better dueler than Draco. Draco might manage to land spells, but Potter was the champion of well-placed disarming spells. When his wand was twisted away from him for the umpteenth time following a good ten minutes of evading and shooting spells, Draco had to concede an embarrassing defeat.

Potter didn’t lord it over him, never did when he won. There might be a minute of joking about it, but it was easy in a way it hadn’t really been before, and Draco couldn’t even dredge up the anger to dislike him for the way he so effortlessly bested Draco in this. It seemed natural--this was Potter’s strength, and Draco was fine with having his own. The one real annoyance about his dismal winning streak, however, was Potter’s reluctance to hand Draco’s wand back over.

“It feels better to use yours,” he said one day, twirling Draco’s wand between his fingers. “Hermione’s is okay, I guess, but yours is more comfortable. It feels more like mine.”

“Seeing as I’m not the one who broke yours, I’m afraid you have no leverage to stealing my wand,” Draco commented. “Give it back.”

“Cor, I wish we had another wand,” Potter said, grudgingly handing Draco’s over.

“I had Nott’s once,” Draco commented. “Won it off him that night at Hogwarts. Dunno what happened to it though.”

“That’s helpful,” Potter commented. “Another duel?”

“If we must,” Draco acquiesced.

But things were not to stay boring for long--that was never the pattern with Potter. One night, Potter was on watch and Draco was accompanying him because he had nothing better to do besides sleep, and he wasn’t tired. Things had devolved into a companionable silence, and if Draco was unmoving, curled into Potter’s side with Potter’s arm around his shoulders, it was only because it was bitterly cold and magical fire couldn’t completely dispel the chill.

The silvery doe appeared out of nowhere, lighting the snow in an ethereal sort of light, startling Potter enough that he jerked Draco away from him before scrambling to his feet. His wand was warily out, so Draco followed in suit, but nobody said anything. The doe-- the _Patronus_ \-- casually wandered away, and without a second’s hesitation, Potter took to following it.

“Are--you--insane?” Draco hissed, pulling on the back of Potter’s jacket. “You are _not_ following a random Patronus into the woods. Didn’t your last brush with death teach you anything?”

“Whoever cast that could’ve killed us already if he’s that close,” Potter responded in a whisper. “I think it’s a friend. The Order communicates with Patronuses, you know.”

“And everyone knows that about the Order,” Draco retorted.

“I’m going,” Potter said stubbornly. “Stay here if you want.” He stole off then, big, long strides through the snow. Draco had a split second of indecision, but going inside to wake Granger would cost him enough time to lose Potter in the tree line, and two wizards were better than one. He had to run to catch up, ignoring the small curve of Potter’s smirk, but Draco kept a tight hold on his wand in any case, casting it about at any hint of noise.

The doe took them on a long walk, stopping finally by the edge of a wide stream before flickering out of existence. Draco braced himself for a surprise attack, but nothing came; no noise besides the rush of the water that hadn’t frozen. He cast a _Lumos_ to match Potter and the light caught on something, a sword shimmering on a rock smack in the middle of the stream, which was rushing by them. Besides him, Potter gasped, bringing himself to the edge of the stream before stopping.

“Is that important?” Draco asked, already knowing the answer.

“I need that,” Potter said, in an almost-awestruck voice. “I need that more than you know.”

“Well summon it then,” Draco said, raising his wand, but Potter grabbed hold of his wrist, forcing his arm down. 

“It’s the sword of Gryffindor,” he explained. “You can’t just summon it. You have to get it through courageous means. That’s why someone put it in the middle of the water. I need to swim to get it.”

“Swim?” Draco said incredulously. “In _that_? You’re going to drown.”

But Potter was already stripping off his clothing, right down to his skivvies in a matter of moments. Draco’s skin pebbled in cold in sympathy. “I’ll be okay,” Potter reassured, and then he waded in. Judging from Potter’s swearing, the water was freezing, but he kept pushing towards it, sinking to his neck in an alarming amount of time as the current pulled him further and further away.

He reached the stone without any kind of trouble that Draco could see, but that’s where the danger started. Potter had only just grabbed the hilt when he jerked, his hand going to his neck, knocking the sword clean into the water. Later, Draco wouldn’t know why he didn’t stop to think, but he knew that Potter, thrashing in the way a fish on land might, was going to sink just like the sword if someone didn’t intervene.

The water was so cold, it was a shock to his system, but Draco pushed forward as Potter had done mere minutes before, his heart beating so frantically that Draco thought he’d choke on it. He let the current take him, scissor-kicking his way towards Potter just as Potter ducked below the surface again. 

It was a miracle Draco was even able to find Potter, with the swirling darkness of the water pounding all around him, and then even more surprising still that he was able to keep hold. Potter wasn’t much of a help as Draco hauled him to the opposite shore, still using one free hand to clutch at his neck, and once they were safely on dry land again, Draco took it upon himself to grab at the necklace currently choking Potter blue, yanking hard enough that the clasp broke and left the weight of it coiled in Draco’s hand. He could instantly feel the _evil_ of it, radiating in a way that made him desperate to be rid of it.

“The sword,” Potter croaked, once he had enough air to go on. “Did you get the sword?”

“No, I bloody did not,” Draco said, unable to let the locket fall from his hand. “I was a bit preoccupied with saving your stupid hide. Didn’t those Muggles ever teach you to swim?”

Potter struggled upwards, moving towards the river again as if he hadn’t nearly died in it. “Draco--the sword--I need to get it.”

“Two steps ahead of you, mate,” someone said from behind them, nearly causing Draco to have a heart attack in fright; so consumed by Potter’s rescue, he hadn’t heard anyone approach. 

“Ron?” Potter gasped, and sure enough, Weasley was there, wet and garnishing a large, silver sword, looking, as always, worse for the wear.

“Or not,” Draco snapped, shoving his wand forward, pointed at Weasley’s face, taking grim satisfaction at how quickly it drained of color.

“Harry--it’s me. I saw the Patronus, and I thought it was yours, so I followed it. Saw you go into the river and nearly drown--did you have to wear the bloody necklace in?”

“How did you know where we were?” Draco demanded. “How do I know that you aren’t the impostor that set out the Patronus in the first place?”

“My Patronus is a dog,” Weasley said desperately. “And Harry, we’ve been friends since the train first year. You shared your sweets with me when my mum packed corned beef and Hermione came in looking for Neville’s frog, and then this joker barged in with Crabbe and Goyle and Scabbers bit--”

“It’s him, Draco,” Harry said, putting a placating hand on Draco’s arm.

“How did he find us then?” Draco asked, still suspicious.

“The Put-Outer Dumbledore gave me,” Weasley supplied immediately. “Harry, as soon as I left, I knew it was a mistake--that locket, it affected me differently than you two. It was stronger. Anyway, I was playing with the Put-Outer one night, and I could _hear_ you and Hermione, and a little ball of light came out of the tip. And I knew that if I stepped into it and Apparated, I’d find you. But I kept coming across empty fields--I think your protection wards are working. I was beginning to lose hope, but then that Patronus, and then I saw you and Malfoy--”

“Good thing you were here,” Potter said grimly. “We might’ve lost the sword if you weren’t.”

“That’s it?” Draco said incredulously. “You’re going to forgive him after that.”

“Can I have the locket back, Draco?” Potter asked. “It’s what we needed the sword for--to destroy it.”

“Don’t give me the details,” Draco said crossly. “I don’t want to know. If you’re sure Ginger here isn’t going to murder you or that you aren’t going to go for another late-night swim, I’m going to head back to the tent, shall I?”

“That’s good,” Potter said distractedly. “I don’t know what the locket will do once we try to kill it.”

Draco didn’t like how Potter said that--how does one _kill_ a locket, but he turned and followed their footprints back to the tent anyways. For a couple of seconds, he felt like someone’s eyes were on him, but there was no one when he turned in a circle, and he was too bloody cold to linger.

He had just barely managed to change into a dry set of clothes when Potter and Weasley traipsed back in, looking grim but satisfied, and loud enough to rouse Granger, who’d fallen asleep in a chair. The resultant dramatics of revealing to her that Weasley was back was better than anything Draco could remember hearing on a wireless melodrama, and to his happiness, Granger was a lot less anxious to forgive Weasley, which led to her striding out of the tent and Weasley following her, spouting apologies.

Without looking at Potter, Draco slipped behind the makeshift curtain that gave his bed some privacy and huddled into the blankets. He was wholly confused with the way the night had gone, with how he’d jumped into a freezing river after Potter without a second thought to his own wellbeing. Coming so soon after their debacle in Godric’s Hollow, Draco was almost convinced he’d been spirited into a parallel universe in which his own psyche operated in different ways than what had been normal.

Draco didn’t know he’d been expecting Potter to slip in next to him until the curtain parted and the bed depressed beneath him. For once, Draco had nothing to say, nothing he could articulate, and Potter seemed to be in the same type of mood, because he’d barely settled before he was kissing Draco, soft and penitent like he was apologizing for nearly drowning an hour prior.

It was heady, overwhelming in a way that turned Draco’s thoughts to static, devolving until Potter was on top, guiding Draco’s dick up inside of him, making these little mewling noises that Draco couldn’t help but mimic. It was so _hard_ to even think coherently, not then, not after everything, and even after his orgasm, Draco couldn’t stop running his hands over Potter, curling next to him.

It had officially become impossible to keep denying that Draco was invested in this as much as he could be without throwing his towel in and joining the fight outright. That, in a way, was the most terrifying thing he could think of and kept him up much later than Potter.

**

“You said you’d seen it before,” Granger persisted, after Draco again talking about the rune that had been on the gravestone in Godric’s Hollow. “If you don’t remember, we’re going to have to go to Xenophilius Lovegood, and I’m not so sure that’s the best idea, considering his...quirkiness.”

“For Merlin’s sake,” Draco griped. “I’m trying, Granger, but you’re not giving me a lot to go on.” And he was--honestly. There was something gallingly familiar about the symbol, but it’s meaning kept slipping through his head like smoke.

“Here,” Granger said, shoving a book under his nose. “Dumbledore wrote it all over. Does this help?”

Draco was about to scoff, shove her book of fairytales back towards her, when the title of the story caught his eye. She’d shown him the pages of this particular novel before, but never turned to this certain story, and it came back to him with a rush at just that little clue. “Of course,” he murmured, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Potter’s back straighten, as though he was paying the utmost attention. “It’s the symbol of the Deathly Hallows.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Granger asked.

“The Deathly Hallows,” Draco repeated. “The wand, the cloak, and the ring.” He traced each respective item in the drawing and looked at her expectantly. “From the story. It’s also Grindelwald’s sign, you know. Apparently he tried very hard to find them.”

“That’s silly--this is a children’s story,” Granger said.   
“I certainly don’t know,” Draco said haughtily, thinking back to when he was a boy and longed for the wand so he could make his mother forget about bedtime. “Plenty of wizards believe in it. Call it a treasure hunt, if you will.”

“The Deathly Hallows,” Potter said, coming up close behind Draco. “Why do they call them that?”

“Honestly, did you not ever read fairytales when you were young?” Draco asked. “They’re the three gifts from Death. If you unite them all, you’re supposed to be invincible.”

“Oh,” Potter said. “Sounds like something You-Know-Who would like.” Behind him, Weasley looked grim and pale.

“Sounds like,” Draco echoed, and the words festered in his stomach.

**

The day of Draco’s reckoning dawned like every other day that spring, cool, damp, and muddy. There was, of course, more of the same: Kreacher prepared the same meal, Draco had nothing to do, as always...and then Potter had to go and accidentally say the Dark Lord’s name, and everything fell around them.

It was chaos. The sudden cracks of Apparition had them all scattering, Kreacher gone in a second, but it they were easily gathered. Draco’s hair was coated in mud from where he’d been tackled by a Tripping spell, and the three Snatchers, or whatever they were called, were beaming widely.

“Lookit what we caught in our net, hmm?” one said. Another leveled a harsh kick at Weasley, who’d been fighting back.

“Y’better tell your boyfriend to stop struggling,” the third said, tall, coarse-haired, and indescribably unsettling. “Or else I might just have to try a bit of your flesh. It’s always good--young blood.”

“Eugh,” Granger said faintly, but she seemed to have enough smarts to stay quiet. Beside her, Potter’s face was swollen by some sort of hex, grotesque enough that Draco could scarcely recognize him.

“Whatter your names,” the first one barked, prodding at Potter with his wand. “And why are you so ugly, ugly?”

“Stung,” Potter mumbled through swollen lips.

“I can see that,” the second commented. “Your name!”

“Vernon Dudley,” Potter parrotted.

“Check the list,” the tall one said. “He on it? And what about you, ginger?”

“Stan Shunpike.”

“And your girlfriend?”

“Penelope Clearwater,” Granger said in a tight voice.

“And what about you?” the tall one asked again. His voice grated on Draco’s nerves, causing him to involuntarily clench his hands in his lap.

“Joshua Evantree,” Draco said with as much of a pompous tone as he could mutter. “And when my father finds out you ambushed me--he’s very close with the Dark Lord, you see.” 

“So why’re you with these half-wits?” the second one asked. “Seems to me to be in a bad group, saying the Dark Lord’s name and all.”

“Half-bloods,” Draco said scathingly. “They forced me along. Seemed to think having me as a hostage would go well for them.”

“Easy enough to check,” tall-one said, smiling sickeningly. “What house are you.”

“I’m a Slytherin,” Draco said haughtily. “The rest of this lot are Ravenclaws. Only ones smart enough to take someone captive as leverage.”

“Fair enough,” the first one said. “Where be your common room, Slytherin?”

“The dungeons, of course. There’s a trick wall that wants a password, and it’s under the lake, so it’s never warm nor dry.”

“Impressive,” the second crowed. “Not many of you that we get know where the common room is, even though you all want to say you’re in Slytherin.”

“I aim to please,” Draco said through gritted teeth. Next to him, the tall one was playing with the sword he’d pillaged from the tent.

“Bind them up, and let’s go,” he said. “The Malfoys will know what to do with this lot.”

Draco’s stomach dropped to the tip of his toes as the four of them were forced to their feet. The Disapparition was disquieting, and coupled with the roiling of Draco’s stomach from nerves, it was a miracle he didn’t get sick once they reached their destination. The gates of his childhood home loomed, but for once, they weren’t comforting. The padlock curled itself into a face, demanding their purpose, and the tall one was happy to oblige.

“We got some usurpers here,” he said. “Think they might be in league with the Order, if you get my drift.” The gates swung open with an almighty squeal, and Draco was frog-marched inside, Potter next to him with a firm grip on the sleeve of Draco’s robes. It took altogether too short of a time to reach the front door, and it opened at once, revealing his mother’s gaunt, pale face.

“Who’s there?” she demanded.

“It’s Greyback!” the tall one said. “We’ve caught some rebels.” Between him and his two companions, Draco and the other three were shoved forward. It was a punch to Draco’s stomach when his mother registered him, her face going slack with shock.

“Bring them in,” she said, though she sounded far from assured.

The front hallway was quite a bit dingier than Draco remembered, the elegant carpet scuffed as his mother led them into the drawing room. Stepping into it was surreal--the last time he’d been here, he’d been his parents’ golden child. Now they were going to turn him over to the Dark Lord without so much as a how-do-you-do.

“Narcissa, what is it?” his father asked, but the tail-end of his question was cut off by Bellatrix’s gasp.

“ _Draco_ ,” she said. “Ohoho, Greyback, you did good.”

“Aunt Bella,” Draco said smoothly, schooling his face into a bored expression.

“So this must be Potter and his two sidekicks,” Bellatrix said, her eyes madly wide. She drew up her sleeve, poised to press the dark mark there, when Draco spoke again.

“Hardly,” he scoffed. “They left me alone in that Merlin-forsaken house in London after their kerfuffle in the Ministry. I found these three hiding on the hillside and figured they’d be better than being alone.”

This caused Bellatrix to pause, her finger hovering, so Draco continued, “I mean, you can call the Dark Lord if you wish, though I hardly think he’d been happy being summoned for me and three half-bloods who were too afraid to stay in Hogwarts.”

“You lie,” she breathed, but she let her hand fall all the same.

Lucius approached the four of them, looking closely at Potter’s maimed face. “Looks like a Stinging hex,” he said.

“Blame the three idiots over there,” Weasley said. “Throwing curses all over the place.”   
“I did not ask for your input, boy!” Lucius snapped. He tilted Potter’s head up, moving it from side to side. “This could be the scar.”

“Or it couldn’t be,” Narcissa said. “We need to be sure, Lucius. He is displeased with us as is. And Draco...”

“Will get what he deserves for deserting us,” Lucius said harshly. 

“What’s that?” Bellatrix demanded suddenly, gesturing towards the sword Greyback’s friend still held. “Where did you get that?”

“Found it in their tent,” the Snatcher defended. “It’s mine. I’m going to sell it for a pretty penny.”

“Someone gave it to me,” Granger said. “An old friend.”

“Lies!” Bellatrix shrieked. “How did you get that from my bank vault?”

“We haven’t been in the bank!” Granger replied, startled.

“Give it here!” screamed Bellatrix, slashing her wand at the man unfortunate enough to have hold of the sword. He dropped it with a yelp, and she grabbed it immediately, cradling it to her chest.

“Send the other two to the dungeons _now_ ,” Bellatrix commanded. “I need to think on what to do.”

“Don’t you dare give orders in _my_ \--” Narcissa started, but Bellatrix cut her off just as suddenly.

“You don’t understand the danger we’re in!” Bellatrix barked. “Do it!”

The two unfettered Snatchers took Potter and Weasley down to the basement with nary a word, leaving Draco undefended against three estranged family members, one of whom was bearing down on Granger with a dangerous gleam in her eye.

“Tell me, missy,” she said. “The truth now. Where did you get this sword?”

“Someone gave it to me,” Granger said levelly. “I already told you.”

“You little liar,” Bellatrix said.

“I’m not,” said Granger. “It’s not a lie.”

“Is it, Draco?” Bellatrix asked, turning to him. “Tell your Aunt Bellatrix now, and I might put a good word in for you.”

“How should I know where she got it?” Draco asked. “I didn’t keep a bloody on watch on her.”

Bellatrix was so angry, she eschewed Legilimancy for a more torrid approach. Granger went down like a sack of potatoes when she was pushed, splayed on the floor like a whore ready for the taking, and Bellatrix was on top of her in a second, her silver dagger between her fingers. She traced the delicate artery of Granger’s neck, almost lovingly, then shoved the point into the meat of Granger’s shoulder, making her cry out in pain.

“WHERE DID YOU FIND IT?” Bellatrix thundered. She twisted the knife roughly, making Granger’s scream turn into some sort of sob. Draco was sick to his stomach, but he made himself seem impartial; showing that he cared about Granger would only make things worse.

“I was unaware that the Dark Lord had told his servants to fight like Muggles,” Draco said flatly. “I’ve obviously been studying the wrong type of defense.” He could hardly believe the words coming out of his mouth, had no idea where the bravado had surfaced, but something had _changed_ within him, imperceptible until now. It was like the Gryffindor had rubbed off on him, the recklessness, the need to protect his own, and the fact that Granger had now become someone that Draco wanted to defend showed just how far he’d come.

Unfortunately, Bellatrix wasn’t in the right mind to pay attention to him, though his mother shot him a look that showed her surprise. His father was watching Bellatrix torture Granger with her knife intently, but Draco knew he heard. The disgusted expression on his face suggested nothing but.

Granger was not offering anything up besides blood, her face twisted in agony as she bucked to get Bellatrix off of her. Bellatrix was being careful to not nick anything important, but she was growing tired of the game; anyone could see that. In one smooth movement, she reared up and drew her wand.

“TELL ME,” she commanded, and in the same breath, threw out the Cruciatus curse that had made her so infamous. Granger’s screams echoed off of the high ceilings, making Draco’s stomach roil, and he couldn’t help but step forward, though to what means he meant to stop it, he didn’t know. Bellatrix didn’t notice his involuntary movement, but his father sure did, striding across the room quicker than Draco thought possible and striking him across the face, hard enough that Draco saw spots as he fell to the ground.  
 “What’s wrong, Draco?” his father asked coldly. “You don’t like hearing your Mudblood girlfriend in pain?”

Draco wanted to say something, needed to find the words to inflict as much hurt as he could, but Granger was finally speaking, released from the curse. “It’s a copy, I swear. It’s not real.”

“Get the goblin then,” Bellatrix said, pointing at Narcissa. “He will know.”

His mother was fast to leave, shooting one last glance at Draco and Lucius before turning the corner. Draco thought he saw grief in her eyes, but she was gone before he could be certain. Bellatrix, even with her answer, had taken up the torture again, and Granger’s screams made it impossible to concentrate on anything else. His father’s attention had turned again, but Draco had a feeling that he wouldn’t have the reprieve for long.

Narcissa marched the goblin into the room, keeping a firm grip on its shoulder though it looked as though it pained her to do so--the thing was filthy, and there was something about its demeanor that made Draco’s skin crawl.

“Is this real?” Bellatrix asked it. “Is this the real sword of Gryffindor?”

The goblin spent its time examining the blade, the hilt, touching the inlaid rubies very carefully. “A fake,” it proclaimed, the opposite of what Draco was expecting to hear. “A very good replica, but fake all the same.”

“You sure?” Bellatrix asked. “Are you absolutely sure, goblin?”

“Yes,” it answered without inflection. 

Bellatrix’s smile was worse than her anger, mad in the way it lit up her face, almost inhuman. “Then we have no need for the girl anymore.”   
“I’ll take her,” Greyback said immediately. “They all taste the same to me...”

“NOOOOO!” someone yelled, and then chaos broke loose as Weasley broke into the room, followed by Potter, who was much more recognizable now--the hex was wearing off.

Draco was close enough to his father that he was able to kick out, knocking Lucius’s legs from under him. It was hardly graceful, but Draco managed to wrest Lucius’s wand through sheer will alone. The room was exploding around them, two Snatchers already unconscious on the ground, and Potter had a wand too, was dueling with Bellatrix, while trying to get to Granger and Weasley.

His mother stayed out of the fight, but was quick to give up her own wand when Lucius got back to his feet, and then Draco was fighting with him, shooting spell after spell, ducking as hexes whizzed past his head. He changed direction so he was being forced back towards Potter, on the defensive, and in doing so crashed into Potter, who was on his knees.

“WE’VE GOT TO GO!” Potter yelled, grabbing hold of Draco’s ankle. Draco wanted to ask how he planned on doing that when the Manor was warded against any escape attempt, and then he saw the little elf. He closed his eyes, waiting for the Disapparition, saw his aunt throw a knife, and then was hit by one of his father’s spells, wrenching him from Potter’s arm. Draco heard Potter’s desperate cry a second too late, and then he was alone in the middle of the room, his aunt and his father bearing down on him.

“Wrong choice, Draco,” his father said. The haze of whatever spell he’d been hit with washed over him, and Draco felt himself fade into unconsciousness.

**

Draco was alone in the dungeons when he awoke, but he was instantly aware, his head pounding. He knew with certainty after just a moment of cognizant thinking that he was going to come face-to-face with the Dark Lord. 

He was going to die.

The thought of it wasn’t as dire as Draco would have expected. Carefully, calmly, he settled himself more firmly against the stone wall and began to think about anything and everything he’d learned that would help the Dark Lord defeat Potter. And then with equal determination, he began to mentally build a wall around it, brick by brick. He would be damned if he gave the Dark Lord that information only to die afterwards. Draco was going to go out with some dignity.

He didn’t know how long he was down there, fortifying his mind, when he heard the creak of the door upstairs, accompanied by a sudden rush of terror. He’d never been so close to the Dark Lord, and certainly never alone with him, but he knew that was who was descending the stairs.

“Draco,” he said, coming into the light. “Oh, Draco, you are in trouble.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Draco said tonelessly. “Thought this was a party.” In person, the Dark Lord was terrifying, tall and thin, no nose, red eyes. He exuded a presence that drew the hairs on Draco’s neck up, made him shiver. The fear was impossible to hide.

“Such a Slytherin,” the Dark Lord said smoothly. “Such a silver tongue. It’s unfortunate that you went the wrong way, Draco. You would have made a good soldier.”

“It’s the tattoo,” Draco said. “I’m just not ready for that kind of lifelong commitment.”

“But you will regret forsaking me,” the Dark Lord said sibilantly. “That I do promise.” He did not give Draco a moment for a dead-pan answer (though, honestly, Draco had already gotten the sense that he’d passed a line) and instead, without anger or any real emotion, casted, “ _Crucio_!”

The pain was instantaneous and all-encompassing, seizing through his muscles as he jerked with it. There was no other thing to concentrate on but how much it hurt, how he felt as though his bones were buckling and cracking, as though his blood was searing its way through his skin. 

When Voldemort let the spell fade away, Draco was on the ground, gasping, shaking. There were no words to be had, nor any dignity on the dirty ground as Voldemort stood over him, a triumphant look on his face. “You defied me,” he said. “That does not come without consequence. But if you give me information, if you give me something I can use to lure Potter to me, I will be forgiving, Draco.”

Draco would be lying if he said he didn’t consider it, but the second he entertained the thought of spilling his guts, of talking about the locket and the sword and Potter’s secret crusade, he saw Potter on the ground, after the snake had attacked him. When Draco had almost believed him dead. It was enough of a deterrent for Draco to curl his lip and say, “I wasn’t stupid enough to snoop into what he was doing. In fact, I was quite happy with him keeping all of that a secret. I don’t know anything you’d want. So you can take your offer and _shove it_.”

The last bit was perhaps a bad idea, and Voldemort’s eyes narrowed as soon as it left Draco’s mouth. “ _Legilimens_!” 

The sense of Voldemort entering his mind was more invasive than the Cruciatus curse, and Draco had to struggle to keep his mind blank. It didn’t matter in any case; Voldemort rifled through his brain as though it was a book, forcing his way back in every time Draco was able to throw him out, and by the time he’d gotten his fill, Draco was dry-heaving, his eyes burning. He had no idea if his wall had held up, but Voldemort’s eyes were pleased.

“You were very meticulous in keeping yourself away from any action,” Voldemort said, “but you forgot one thing. Potter loves being a hero, and he is particularly interested in saving the people he loves. And you have made him love you.”

That was enough to make Draco laugh, a dry sound that echoed throughout the dungeon. “Potter doesn’t love me,” he spat.

“I think we’ll be the judge of that,” Voldemort said. “I’m going to send you back to Hogwarts. The quickest way to show my prowess is to invade the most heavily defended school in Britain and kill their savior while I do it. You’ll go to school, and I will wait for Potter to find you.”

“It’ll never work,” Draco said. “Potter’s not that stupid.” But even as he was saying it, he knew it wasn’t true; Potter _was_ that stupid. Potter would almost definitely walk into that trap.

“And then I’ll make him believe that you’ve betrayed him. Told me all his little secrets,” Voldemort continued. “And when he is broken, I will kill him and parade him in front of all those who believe him to be my downfall.”

“Melodramatic much?” Draco muttered, but Voldemort did not hear.

“And I can’t do it without you, Draco. But please don’t worry. I will kill you once Potter is dead. Slowly and with great relish.” 

As quickly as he’d descended on the dungeon, Voldemort was gone, his purpose complete. But he was kind enough to send Bellatrix down with strict orders to keep Draco in good mental function and alive. Which was no relief at all.

**

Being back at Hogwarts after being so long away from it was bizarre. His mother had healed him enough from Bellatrix’s ministrations so it wasn’t obvious that he’d been beaten, but it was hard to walk without a limp; Bellatrix had taken some pleasure in twisting the meat of his thigh with an invisible corkscrew.

Snape had clearly gotten instructions from Voldemort to perpetuate the lie of Draco being a turncoat, and he was taken in front of the Great Hall to be praised for his allegiance to the Dark Lord. The looks from the sparsely populated Gryffindor table were sharp enough to cut, and Draco wanted to shout that he’d been too bloody devoted to give up anything resembling a secret, that he hated Voldemort as much as they did. But he wasn’t quite that stupid yet, especially not with the Carrows smirking from the back of the room.

He took his place at the Slytherin table, head held high as if his skin wasn’t crawling to be there. Nott gave him a dirty look that promised trouble later, which wasn’t too encouraging. Draco wondered if he’d even be alive by the time Potter made his way back to Hogwarts.

Snape was smart enough to personally escort Draco to the Slytherin common room and issued thinly-veiled threats to ensure Draco’s fellow Slytherins didn’t use their own brand of torture to test the theory of Draco as a spy for Voldemort, praising him like a particularly proud uncle, one hand clasped tightly on Draco’s shoulder. Draco quite wondered if Snape was using his lies to fuel his dislike for Draco, only to unleash it at a later, more private date. With one last admonition, Snape left Draco to the snakes, his parting gift being a handprint-shaped bruise on the delicate skin of Draco’s arm and shaky protection from his fellow classmates.

Draco swept through them with all the fake-confidence he could muster, but he was waylaid by Nott at the foot of the stairs leading to the bedrooms. He was flanked by Crabbe and Goyle and looked particularly incensed, and he crossed his arms and said, “You must be a better actor than I thought, Malfoy.”

“Not all of us can be so obvious,” Draco replied. “You know, subterfuge does have its uses. As the Dark Lord found out.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see if you don’t double-cross again,” Nott said. “I haven’t forgotten about my wand, by the way. I want it back.”  
 “I have no idea what I did with that piece of trash,” Draco said flippantly. “Good finding it in the kindling the house elves use to keep the castle warm.”

Crabbe cracked his knuckles viciously, and Draco feigned utter boredom, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll be watching you,” Nott promised, his face contorted meanly.

“I look forward to it,” Draco said. “Now get out of the way. Some of us are tired from actually being of use to the Dark Lord instead of hiding at school.”

Nott looked murderous, but he parted way all the same, ushering Draco up the stairs with a dramatic hand flourish. Draco was quick getting to an abandoned bed, protecting it with the varied charms he picked up while on the lam with Potter, but it did no use. Two hours later he was roused by one of the Carrows, and they had a particularly fun time using their baser forms of magic to show Draco just how mistaken he was if he’d thought he was going to escape his betrayal of Voldemort that easily.

**

The next couple of weeks passed in a haze of pain and exhaustion. Draco was lucky if he got more than four hours of sleep any given day, and he ached all over from his nightly appointments with the Carrows. In fact, he was pretty sure that if this treatment continued, he’d be insane within a week--it was getting harder and harder to hold on to reality while he was being played with as if he was a mouse caught in a vicious trap.

Classes were surreal caught in the cycle that Draco found himself in. He skived off Transfiguration, because if there was ever a better reason to avoid McGonagall, Draco hadn’t yet found it, but he still had to suffer through Potions and Defense, among the others. All of the Gryffindors that hadn’t made their way into hiding were particularly nasty, tripping Draco, catching him with errant curses, and the Slytherins were hardly better.

It was hell, to put it frankly.

And, irony of all ironies, when Potter finally did make it back to Hogwarts, causing an almighty scene as he did so, Draco was firmly sequestered in the bowels of the castle, asleep. There was less of a chance of the Carrows rousing him for another fun time in their office if they couldn’t find him, so Draco had taken solace under a desk in a rarely-used study room to try and get at least a couple of hours of rest. Any chaos upstairs was completely undetectable this far underground, so Draco was afforded a few hours of peace and quiet...until the gates of hell really broke loose.

Having Voldemort’s voice in your head was undoubtedly the worst wake-up call ever, but it was what roused Draco, clear as a bell. “I know you are preparing to fight,” he said, calm as ever in that high-pitched voice, so clear that Draco sat straight up, expecting to see Voldemort kneeling over him. “That would be folly. You cannot defeat me. I do not want to kill you. I know the value of magical blood, and I do not wish to spill it needlessly. 

Draco gaped, uncomprehending at the onslaught of information, none of which made sense. “Give me Harry Potter,” Voldemort continued. “Give me Harry Potter, and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter and you shall be rewarded. I will give a reprieve until midnight.”

“Potter,” Draco mouthed, scrambling to his feet. He did not know what he expected, but as full awareness came back to him, he began to think, to suspect that Voldemort’s plan had worked. Potter had been lured to Hogwarts, was perhaps at this very moment being schooled by the Gryffindors about Draco’s supposed betrayal. And there was no way, not with the remaining allies in the school, that Potter was going to surrender so easily. So there was, as the last remaining conclusion, about to be a battle, between Hogwarts and Death Eaters, and Draco was in the fray without either side to depend on.

As such, that gave Draco two solid options: stay hidden in the room he was in at the moment or join the fight. His Slytherin senses were screaming at him to tuck himself away, Disillusioned against the wall, but he couldn’t make his head work well enough to do that simple action. So he took the opposite into account and stole out the door, creeping his way slowly and carefully towards the room where the house elves hid the laundered robes, the din of the approaching battle growing louder with every step.

The laundry rogom was abandoned, but there were enough clean robes that Draco was able to steal a Gryffindor one and make his way to a bathroom without detection. He changed quickly and glamoured his hair in the mirror to a dark, murky brown. As far as disguises went, it was pathetic at best, but it kept him from being a beacon for attacking Order members, no bright blond hair or Slytherin colors to give him away.

And then, against all better judgement, he began to make his way upstairs. He kept expecting to see Potter around every corner, especially as he insinuated himself into a throng of students heading towards the Great Hall instead of away, but he wasn’t there, nor Granger or Weasley. Draco detoured to the Room of Hidden Things, desperate to find a familiar face to explain what had happened to him, but he only saw a handful of people, all too hostile to reveal himself to. All the while, explosions had started, with screams and the stinging, ozone smell of wandwork. Draco was about to head back down, join the fighting as safely as possible to prove his case, when someone rounded the corner, distracted enough to not see Draco lurking in the shadows. He was prepared to stay still and not draw attention when he recognized who it was.

“What are you doing?” Draco demanded, stepping forward without thinking, and he was lucky he didn’t get a Killing Curse to the chest as his cousin whipped around.

“What on--” she exclaimed, and then her face hardened as she recognized Draco in turn. “Draco.”

“Yes, here I am, scourge of the Order,” Draco said bitterly. “And here you are, recently pregnant and about to join a fight when you’re obviously not at your best.” Draco had heard Lupin’s squawking to Potter back when they’d been at Grimmauld Place, and he could see the deflated paunch of Tonks’ stomach now. She looked unsteady on her feet but determined.

“So you’re the expert now at combat?” Tonks asked deprecatingly, but she lowered her wand.

“I know you’re just going to get people killed. Like that werewolf of yours. He doesn’t seem like he’d keep a cool head after Bellatrix knocks you down.”

“You have a high opinion of her if you think that will happen,” Tonks said. “Why do you even care?”

“Or a low opinion of you,” Draco pointed out. “And, honestly, I don’t know. _Stupefy_!” 

It was a testament to how off her game Tonks was that the Stunning spell took her off guard. She fell heavily enough to make Draco wince, and then he had to levitate her to a safe place where she wasn’t likely to be discovered. The borrowed wand he was using kept giving out and dumping her on the floor, but Draco got her stashed away, making a mental note to come back and awaken her if he made it through the night.

By the time that chore was done, the battle had been raging for some time. Draco could smell smoke on the air, see through the ramparts the chaos that had been unleashed outside, with giants and all manners of magical beasts. It was enough to deter Draco from venturing further into the fray, but he did anyway, brandishing his next-to-useless wand and making his way to the front of the castle where the action had settled.

To say it was a melee would be a gross understatement, with the haphazard crossing of spellwork in the air, people running, fighting, _dying_. He saw the body of one of the Indian twins that had been in his year, glassy-eyed and gray, and Death Eaters were swarming the edges of the lawn, pressed flush against the parts of the protecting wards that remained. The supernatural creatures had broken through though, giant bloody spiders swarming off with victims, giants hurling blocks of stone at the higher towers of Hogwarts. It was too crazy to even find an ally; faces were blurring in front of him, and Draco’s throat was stickily sweet with fear. He was whipping spells without even thinking of it, didn’t know he had joined the battle until he was in the thick of it, swept off into the grounds. He was aiming at the masked Death Eaters, but there was no way to say if he was actually succeeding in anything--he could very well have been hitting those on his side without meaning to do it.

He was so caught up in the fight that he didn’t notice he’d been pushed to the edge where the giants had congregated. One was sweeping up people left and right, flinging them to the ground when they didn’t meet his fancy, and though Draco tried to run, tried to shove his way through the throng, he was unsuccessful. When the giant’s hand wrapped around him, it squeezed hard enough to suck the air from Draco’s lungs. He heard the audible crack of what he assumed to be a breaking rib, and the pain was nauseating, crashing over him, causing him to lose control of his glamour. His head lolled as the giant brought him to eye level, and he was preparing himself to be hurled back to the ground when the giant cocked it’s head, grinned with its boulder teeth, and started to edge its way towards the forest, Draco still in hand.

It crashed through the trees without regard, a slow, even gait through the thicket. The giant was not quite tall enough to be above the tree line, so Draco kept getting hit with stray branches, heavy enough to draw blood. And then the giant stalled, set Draco down, and sat itself, looking blankly ahead. Draco was about to rejoice his sudden turn of luck when he discovered what he’d been taken to.

“Welcome, Draco,” Voldemort said. He was in a clearing with his followers: Draco’s parents among them. Nott was lying in the center, dead as a doornail, his mouth gaping comically. He waved his wand, and Draco could feel his vocal cords seize up tightly enough that he couldn’t voice his note of surprise as he was levitated and deposited next to his mother, tethered by some invisible force to stand stock still.

“Even after everything, you’re still fighting against me, Draco,” Voldemort said, almost lazily. “I have command of the Elder Wand now, and soon enough Harry Potter will be dead.”

A million retorts went through Draco’s head, but he couldn’t say any of them. His side was aching horribly, his head muzzy and floating. He felt like he was about to lose consciousness at any moment, but something unmercifully kept him awake, just barely cognizant. Time slipped by, and it was too hard for Draco to grasp anything. At some point, in what seemed like the space it had taken Draco to blink, Potter’s half-giant friend had appeared, tied to a tree with actual ropes.

And then, like a badly timed nightmare, Potter was stepping into the thicket and something snapped back to life in Draco’s head at the sight of him. He was dirty and...resigned, his eyes catching on Draco’s and holding them for a long moment. Draco, of course, couldn’t yell at him, couldn’t warn him, and Voldemort was sweeping his arm in a grand gesture. The half-giant was yelling, telling Potter to run, asking Potter what he was doing, but there was no answer, and he was silenced in a second. It was just Potter and Voldemort, staring at each other, facing off.

“Harry Potter,” Voldemort said. “My near downfall. The Boy Who Lived.”

It was like he was moving in slow motion, and Potter was just _standing there_ , not raising his arm or showing any sign of defending himself. When the Killing Curse spilled from Voldemort’s mouth, Potter only flinched, just a slight movement before he was crumpling to the ground. 

Draco made a noise so desperate, so terrifyingly real, that it partially burst through the spell that had silenced him. He struggled against his bonds, trying to get to Potter, to make sure that he was alright. No one was paying attention to him, too focused on Voldemort, who had somehow fallen, but the spell was too strong, and Draco could only feebly struggle. Tears were spilling down his face without him realizing it, hot and wet and stinging. His shock was so great that he felt he could die with it, despair seeping into every empty space within his body.

“My Lord, are you okay?” demanded Bellatrix, helping Voldemort to his feet.

“That will do,” Voldemort said coldly.

“I can help,” she said. “Let me--”

“I said, _that will do_ , Bellatrix,” Voldemort replied. “The boy--is the boy dead?”

No one answered, and Draco wanted to scream, to swear at him. Of course Potter was dead--he’d just been hit with an Avada Kedavra. He was lying on the ground, as still as stone.

“Narcissa,” Voldemort said sharply. “Go check the boy. Make sure he really is gone.”

Draco’s mother crept forward, little by little, and in that moment, Draco hated her. She was about to confirm that Draco’s whole world was upended, about to be snuffed out, and she would be _happy_ about it. She knelt next to Potter, putting one delicate hand on his neck.

“Dead, my Lord,” she said reedily, and Draco cried out again, louder this time through his magical gag.

Voldemort’s resultant laugh was chilling enough to raise the hairs on the back of Draco’s head. “The Boy who _Died_ ,” he crowed. “He was never strong enough to face me, to claim to be my defeater. I have killed him! _Crucio_!”

Potter’s body flopped like a rag doll, but there was no sound. It was grotesque, seeing him jerk like that without reaction, and Draco tasted bile at the back of his throat.

“Let’s take him to the castle,” Voldemort declared. “Show everyone what’s become of their hero. Have the half-breed carry him.”

The processional through the Forbidden Forest was surreal. Draco was given back the use of his legs and his voice, but every step was agony. He tried not to look at Potter, but he couldn’t help himself. He kept concentrating on Potter’s blank face, taking step after step as if he could get close to him, bring him back to life.

Sooner than Draco would have anticipated, they were back at the edge of the grounds, coming up on the resistance. The Death Eaters fanned out, Hagrid, Draco, and Voldemort in the middle of their unbreakable line, Potter still hanging limp from Hagrid’s arms. Once the attention had focused on them, the reaction was instantaneous and horrible. McGonagall’s loud NO was an awful thing to hear--Draco had never seen her become so unhinged. It preempted a cacophony of denial from which Draco could pick out Granger’s voice, among others. 

“Quiet,” ordered Voldemort, his cold, high voice just loud enough to carry. “He is dead. I have won. Giant, lie him at my feet, in his proper position.”

Hagrid hesitated, but he lowered Potter all the same, his body flopped at Voldemort’s feet like a discarded toy. “You see?” Voldemort cried. “I have killed him. Your hero is nothing. You have sacrificed for him, fought for him, and for nothing. He was never going to defeat me.”

“He did!” Weasley yelled, his face twisted and red. “He did beat you!” Those around him raised their voices in agreement, as though they couldn’t see Potter dead in the grass.

“He ran!” Voldemort snapped. “We caught him trying to escape through the Forbidden Forest as you all fought for him. He was nothing but a coward, trying to save himself!”

This was apparently too much for the crowd, and an unlikely hero darted forward, Longbottom, acting as though he could beat Voldemort alone. The resultant bang threw Longbottom off his feet, restoring a quiet so still that everyone heard Draco’s snort of disbelief.

Voldemort turned slowly, his face expressionless. “My dear Draco,” he said, the lie slipping easily from his tongue. “Have you something to say? You were, after all, instrumental in drawing Potter to me, in showing him that the only logical course was to run. If not for you, I may not have had the chance to kill him.”

“I’m laughing,” Draco said, his voice strong, “because you think that all these people are actually going to believe that Potter ran from you. That is the worst story I think I’ve ever heard.”

Draco didn’t know where this was coming from, the unwavering defiance. He knew, of course, that he wasn’t likely to last the night, and seeing Potter dead was enough: he needed to provoke Voldemort into a quick death. He was so tired, so sick of it all, and this was the way to do it: humiliate Voldemort in front of everyone.

The shock was almost funny in the way it rippled through everyone. Voldemort hid it well, but Draco could see he was incensed. “Turning sides again, Draco?” he asked. “After I’ve already won?”

“I wouldn’t be on your side if you paid me,” Draco said. “You’re pathetic. You’re pleased about being able to kill a boy who never finished school after he walked right up to you and let you do it without raising his wand. There was a reason for it, but you’re too thick to see. He’s beat you, like Weasley said.”

“You aim to be an example?” Voldemort asked. “So be it.”

Draco expects the Killing Curse to be fast, to snuff him out before he knows it, bring him to darkness, but Voldemort was not merciful enough for that. The flaming hex he sent Draco’s way engulfed him, fastened him to the spot he was on in the ground so everyone could see him burn. Funnily enough, it didn’t hurt as it grew around him. Vaguely, through the flames and the surprising calm of his mind, he could see a manner of creatures break free from the forest, forcing their way through the throng of Death Eaters. The noise was enormous, enough to break through the crackling of flames around him, and with a sudden crescendo, Draco felt something within him _push_ and he was free from the fire, standing unharmed in the middle of the grounds. 

“HARRY!” Hagrid shouted. “WHERE DID HARRY GO?”

It was if someone had set off an exploding hex. People were scrambling everywhere, giants were underfoot, centaurs were stampeding, and Draco was standing shell-shocked in the middle of it all. Potter was _gone_ disappeared as surely as anything, and everyone was moving around him, pushing him back towards the castle as fighting restarted. Voldemort had joined in, felling people left and right, but the defenders of the castle were equally vicious. Draco had no wand, but it was easy enough to scoop a rolling one off the floor, abandoned by a dead owner. Lupin was right next to him, prevented a Killing curse from felling Draco with a whip of his hand, but they had no time for words as spells continued to fly. Draco took up his strategy of blindly firing off hexes, though with somewhat better aim, and he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Bellatrix killed by McGonagall, who looked wild with her hair out of place.

Voldemort had seen too, and his face was pure fury as he aimed his wand at McGonagall’s face, and then...and then, someone yelled, “ _Protego_ ” clear as a bell, and the Shield Charm expanded around them with great force, blowing Draco’s hair from his face. Potter was there in an instant, standing in the middle of the hall looking serious and angry, Draco’s wand held aloft in his hand. Again, it was an explosion of sound as everyone realized that Potter wasn’t dead, but Draco wasn’t among them, shocked into silence, relieved as he’d ever been. Potter and Voldemort began a slow circle around each other, Potter’s face completely calm while Voldemort’s teemed with fury.

“I don’t want anyone else to help me,” Potter said loudly, his wand pointed directly at Voldemort’s heart. “It’s got to be like this. It’s got to be only me.”  
 “Lies,” Voldemort hissed. “Potter hasn’t lasted a moment in battle without having a human shield. Who will it be now, hmm?”

“No one else is dying tonight,” Potter said evenly. “I’m going to make sure of it. There are no Horcruxes left, and only one of us can survive.”

“One of us?” Voldemort sneered. “And you think it will be you? You, who lived only because your mother was fool enough to jump in front of my spell? You will die, just like she did.”

“But don’t you get it?” Potter asked. “I died for these people.”

“You didn’t,” Voldemort snarled.

“I _meant_ to, and that’s all that counts. They’re protected from you, just like I was protected when my mum died. None of your spells are working; don’t you see? You never learn from your mistakes, Riddle.”

“How _dare_ you?” Voldemort hissed.

“Of course I dare,” Potter challenged. I know things you don’t. Important things. Do you want to hear them?”

Voldemort did not respond, didn’t react with a spell either, looking at Potter warily. He was quiet for a while, still circling, then said, “Love, Potter? Is that what you wish to teach me? Is that your great weapon, what’s going to kill once and for all? Your naivete is almost amusing. You think Dumbledore has taught you what you need, but you forget--I brought about the death of Dumbledore!”

“You didn’t,” Potter said evenly. “He was dying before you ever hatched your plan. He _allowed_ Snape to strike him down on the tower.”

“I does not matter!” Voldemort shouted. “Snape defeated Dumbledore, and I killed Snape I have control of the Elder Wand now!”

“You don’t,” Potter said. “You’re forgetting one thing. Nott disarmed Dumbledore before Snape got to him. Dumbledore _wanted_ Snape to kill him--they had an agreement! And then Draco Disarmed Nott, took control of Nott’s wand-- _and Dumbledore’s_. And now I have Draco’s wand, Draco’s power, and that means I control the Elder Wand.”

This was too much for Voldemort, an overload of information, and quick as a flash, he was raising Dumbledore’s wand, screaming, “ _Avada Kedavra_!”

Draco was sure this was it--he was going to watch Potter die a second time, and there’d be no recovering from it now. He started forward, even as Potter yelled, “ _Expelliarmus_!” but halted as the battle unfolded. Potter’s spell met Voldemort’s mid-air, crashing with an almighty bang, and then Voldemort’s wand was sailing through the sky, meeting Potter’s hand and Voldemort was falling, his face a shocked mask.

Voldemort crumbled, his body caving in on itself, his eyes becoming vacant, and things were so silent, the wind could be heard even with hundreds of people crammed into such a small space. The explosion of sound--the last of many that night-- was deafening as everyone realized that Voldemort was _gone_ , and Potter was instantly engulfed in his supporters, a giant tidal wave pulling him down. People were crying, cheering, and Draco was numb. He didn’t know how long he stood there watching it all unfold, but he felt this _need_ to get to Potter, to tell him what had happened, to hit him for being so reckless, to kiss him in front of everyone and stake his claim.

Draco, however, did none of this, choosing instead to turn and walk, ever-so-slowly, back into the bowels of the castle. He did not want to talk to Potter, didn’t want to see the suspicion in Potter’s eyes, hear what everyone was saying about him. He didn’t _fit_ with Potter the Hero, the Gryffindor. He was an outsider, and his time with Potter was clearly at an end. He had no more to offer, no more reason to stick around. 

Draco had half a mind to double back and walk the road to Hogsmeade, but he didn’t have the energy or strength. It nearly took everything out of him to find the room he deposited Tonks in, and once he’d released the Stunning spell and gotten out of her way, it was nearly impossible to walk. Through sheer willpower alone, he made it down to the Slytherin dormitories, woefully abandoned, and made his way to an empty bed. He didn’t even bother taking off his shoes before he collapsed onto it, and his last thought before falling asleep was whether someone would kill him before he woke again, a fitting end for a traitor.

**

Draco was not nearly ready to wake up when something disturbed him, a brush against his face. He ached all over, didn’t want to devote the brainpower to figure out what it was, but it was insistent, brushing his hair back, stroking his cheek until all he _could_ do was wake up.   
And there was Potter, looking at him in the dim light, his face still streaked with grime, his clothing dirty from his almost-death in the forest. The surprise was so great that Draco struggled upwards, regretting it almost instantly as his body cried out in pain. He had nothing to stay, couldn’t start the exchange, and just stared at Potter instead, willing him to break the silence.

When Potter did open his mouth, what came out wasn’t what Draco was expecting. “You’re such an _idiot_ ,” he said, all fond exasperation. Before Draco could respond, say anything to defend himself, Potter kissed him hard, holding onto Draco like if he let go Draco would disappear.

Draco was light-headed when Potter pulled away, his eyes flitting over Draco’s face, his body, taking every detail in. Draco cleared his throat,and before he could think, he blurted, “Didn’t you hear? I _betrayed_ you. Sold you out for Voldemort.”

“You’re saying his name now,” Potter said. “Doesn’t sound like a Death Eater.”

“I told him everything about you,” Draco lied. “Gave him all your secrets.”

“Didn’t help him find me any easier,” Potter replied. “And it’s not like you had very many secrets to tell.”

“I lured you here,” Draco continued. 

“I was coming anyway,” said Potter easily. His hand had found its way to Draco’s cheek, cupping it in this odd sort of way.

“You died,” Draco said in a choked voice.

“I didn’t,” Potter said. “I thought I was going to, but I didn’t. I heard what you said when Voldemort was talking to everyone. I heard you scream when I fell.”

“You were dreaming,” said Draco thickly. “I didn’t care.”

“Stop lying to me,” Potter admonished lightly. “What did they do to you? I’m _sorry_. There was no way I could rescue you. You weren’t supposed to be left behind.” He looked so stricken, so guilty, that Draco couldn’t help but scoot closer so his knees were brushing Potter.

“I’m a Slytherin. I’m not supposed to be your ally,” Draco said miserably.

“Draco, what did they _do_ to you?” Potter asked again.

“Nothing out of the ordinary for a blood traitor,” replied Draco. “Legilimency, Cruciatus, general torture. I think my ribs are broken.”

Potter looked awful, pale and shaking, and he immediately pushed off Draco’s robes and pulled up his jumper to reveal and ugly, purpling bruise running the length of Draco’s left side. “I never should have let you come with me,” Potter murmured, and then, more strongly, “We need to get you to Madame Pomfrey.”

“You telling me that Pomfrey doesn’t have more pressing things to heal?” Draco asked. “I’ve survived this long. I’ll be fine until later, if your fellow Gryffindors don’t get to me first.”

“They’ll know Voldemort was lying,” Potter said. “I’ll make sure of it--Hermione and Ron too. I don’t think I could have done it without you. You killed Nagini, you saved me from the river when I went after the sword...you don’t know how important you were.”

“I got caught,” Draco said. “I let Voldemort pick my brain, I didn’t do anything when he was going to kill you.”

“Could you have? Done something, I mean?” Potter asked. 

“He stuck me to the ground,” Draco admitted. “I could’ve been stronger. I could have tried harder.”

“Hey,” Potter said. “I’m alive. I’m here. Voldemort is dead, and you didn’t do anything that would have stopped me from defeating them. You’re as much a hero as I am.”

“I didn’t _do_ anything,” Draco argued. 

“You don’t even know,” Potter said, kissing Draco. This lasted longer, long enough that Draco forgot about the ache in his ribs, how he was tired enough to collapse. Potter tasted sweet, like honey, and he made fire kindle in Draco’s belly, warming him.

“I’m not leaving you,” Potter said when he pulled away again. “It may be over, but I don’t think can get away from you.”

“I don’t have anyone else but you,” Draco said stupidly.

“Your mum lied to Voldemort for me,” Potter said softly. “She lied and said I was dead.”

“She’ll follow my dad before me,” Draco said. “And he hates me.”

“I don’t,” Potter said. “I think I love you.”

“Oh,” Draco said stupidly. 

“Stop running,” Potter pleaded. “The war is done. I can finally be normal.”

“The great Harry Potter will never be normal,” Draco responded.

“I can try,” Potter said. “But you have to come with me. What am I going to do without you right next to me, being a giant prat, just like always.”

“Get yourself into more trouble than normal,” Draco murmured. 

“You’ve got to come,” Potter replied. 

“Okay, Harry,” Draco said. He was exhausted again, overloaded with information and emotion, and that was the most ready answer.

“Good,” Potter said with another kiss, soft, careful, and Draco let himself fall backwards into the pillows. Potter let himself lie down too, to the side of Draco instead of on top of him, and they kissed until Draco fell asleep.

**

**Nineteen and a half years later**

“Priya, it’s going to be okay,” Potter soothed. “Dad and I don’t care what house you’re sorted into.”

“Daddy,” Priya said, her lower lip wobbling, “are you sure you don’t care either?”

“Of course I don’t,” Draco said under the influence of Harry’s raised eyebrow. “It doesn’t matter which house you’re in.” Harry smiled happily, turning away to pick up Priya’s trunk, and Draco mouthed, _Slytherin_ with a wink. He already had a reputation for being a Gryffindor-wannabe; he didn’t need his daughter to cement the story.

“You should go find Rose,” Harry said soothingly. “Hermione and Ron are here--I can see them.”

“Okay,” Priya said quietly. “But you’ll say goodbye to me, right?”

“Of course, bunny,” Draco said. “And if you don’t write me, I’ll send a snake after you.”

“Draco!” scolded Harry, scandalized.

“Will you really?” Priya asked, her eyes wide and excited.

“Priya, go,” Potter laughed. “We’ll find you in a minute.”

“Why are you always the practical one,” Draco grumbled.

“You’re going to scar her emotionally,” Harry said. “Did you see where Acanthus went?”

“Off with Lupin’s children,” Draco said. “ _Why_ you let him run off with them...”

“She’s your cousin,” Harry said. “You saved her at Hogwarts, and now you’re angry our son likes her children?”

“Shut up,” Draco said. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m going to go over and talk to Ron,” said Harry. “Behave.”

“I always do,” Draco said. Once Potter had walked away, he leaned against one of the support beams and just watched, seeing classmates he hadn’t in a very long time mingle, some of them catching him in an informal greeting, others giving him a wide berth. It was odd how things had turned out, Draco thought; accepted in the Gryffindor crowd and ignored by the Slytherin one. Goyle was so keen to avoid Draco’s eye that he was doing a dance to get away from Draco’s side of the station without trampling on some first year.

And, honestly, Draco never thought he’d be here: husband to an Auror, a respected Potions Master for the Ministry, three children adopted from various orphan-causing accidents--Potter, always the hero. Draco sighed, thought of Honora, still too young to come along, at home, and wished Potter would return; he felt out of place here alone, but at the same time, he wasn’t in the mood to talk to Granger and Weasley.

“Draco Malfoy?” someone asked, coming in from Draco’s right flank.

“Yes,” Draco said formally, straightening up. He caught sight of someone who seemed vaguely familiar, but for the life of him, Draco couldn’t place him.

“Can I help you?” Draco asked slowly.

“You don’t remember me?” the stranger asked. “How fascinating. I’m Boone. I was a friend of your father’s.” He touched Draco’s forearm, and like a spell to the chest, Draco fell to his knees, his head splitting. He couldn’t comprehend things for a moment, an overflow attacking his brain, but when it subsided, Draco was very nearly sick. That was what happened when someone had two divergent timelines existing for his own life.

“What have you done?” Draco asked. Around him, everyone else was still, leaving only Draco and Boone animated to finish their conversation in peace.

“You’re angry?” Boone asked. “Why Draco, I gave you a second chance to turn things right! Though I’m very surprised as to how you’ve managed to do so.”

“You couldn’t,” Draco said, his head spinning. “Why...?” It was unreal, remembering Boone’s odd Time Turner, the travel back to his first year, Astoria, Scorpius, Potter, Priya...it was very nearly too much.

“I am smarter than you would give me credit for,” Boone said smugly. “And what better place to reveal myself than here? Somewhere you went in your other life at the exact same time in history as you did now.”

“What are you going to do?” Draco asked.

“That, dear Draco, is entirely up to you,” Boone said. “I can restore your old life, let you go back to the Manor with your son and wife...or you can stay in this new history you’ve created. Live with Harry Potter and your adopted children. I judge not.”

“You’re playing as a God,” Draco murmured. 

“I am not quite that arrogant yet,” Boone said, smirking. “But I am busy, Draco. Please...your answer?”

If there was a crueler decision than this, Draco didn’t know it. He could remember Scorpius, his baby face so much like Draco’s, his mother and father with their unconditional love, unstrained as it was in his life with Potter. Astoria and her bright face whenever she was happy with something, the way he could conduct his business in private, go to Knockturn Alley without censure.

But then...then there was Harry. Harry with his unerring sense of right and wrong, their children, the eclectic house Harry had insisted in buying in Godric’s Hallow. The way Harry would wake up to his alarm and instantly burrow into Draco. The way Draco’s heart thrummed when Harry touched him just so, his smile, his eyes.

“I can’t,” Draco stammered.

“You must,” Boone replied implacably.

Draco couldn’t wrap his head around it, couldn’t think. He stood there for a second, scraping his hand against the brickwork until it bled, and when he spoke, the name torn from his mouth had not been thought about as it bubbled up, pure truth unsullied by over-thinking.

“Harry,” Draco said, and that was that. Boone gave a smile, and before Draco could amend anything, he let go, and things were falling away again.

Shaking his head, Draco straightened against the pillar he was situated against, watching Potter come closer, fighting his way through the crowds. He felt odd for some reason, as though he’d lost the last couple minutes of his day, though for the life of him, he couldn’t remember why.

“C’mon,” Potter said, holding out a hang. “Let’s go say goodbye to Priya.”

“Always the bossy one,” Draco muttered, but he took the proffered hand without hesitation and followed Potter to the train.

**

THE END 


End file.
